


Closer

by itsjustsilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Draco Malfoy, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Arranged Marriage, Blood Magic, Dark, Deception, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Marriage, Gaslighting, Misogyny, Oblivious Hermione Granger, Older Draco Malfoy, Older Man/Younger Woman, Omega Hermione Granger, Omega Verse, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Possessive Behavior, Pregnancy Kink, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Rape/Non-con Elements, Unreliable Narrator, do not expect a happy ending for hermione please, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-09-23 12:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17080448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsjustsilver/pseuds/itsjustsilver
Summary: There is something wrong with Hermione.Dramione non-cona/b/oAU- no Voldemort.Draco Malfoy is much older than Hermione in this fic.Alpha Draco, Omega Hermione.Dark story. No underage sex. Will update tags as I go along.Please heed the tags!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! My attempt at first person POV and Dramione and A/B/O. Lots of first attempts rolled into one. Let me know if this story deserves to be continued.

The library’s become somewhat of a zoo. The Bulgarian Quidditch player, the one everyone’s obsessing about, is in there all the time, and hordes of students have decided that they too need to be revising.

I really don’t want to go, but I’m missing some information on the properties of dragon liver, and I need it to finish my Potions essay. It’s due in a week, and I don’t like to leave things to the last minute.

The Quidditch player stands and heads out of the Great Hall. He’s immediately followed by a swarm of people. Grimacing, I down my drink and stand also. It looks like he might be heading outside; if I’m lucky, I can be in and out of the library in an hour and evade all of them.

“Where are you _going_?” Someone yanks on my arm.

I look down at Parvati. “To the library,” I hiss. “I need to work on the Potions essay.”

“Which essay? The one we were given just this afternoon?” She groans. “Hermione, no one else is in the mood to study right now.”

That’s not true. I’m in the mood.

“Speaking of moods, she’s ruining the one here,” Ron says unkindly. Seamus chuckles. Harry is playing with a snitch he likely stole and is looking wistfully in the direction the famous player has disappeared to.

I roll my eyes at him and go.

The library is quiet. I’d forgotten how much I miss the silence. With the addition of students from two visiting schools, the castle hasn’t been this quiet since the beginning of the school year. Some OWLs and NEWTs students are occupying the study tables in the heart of the Potions section and I stay a respectful distance from them, scouring the shelves as unobtrusively as I can. I’m looking for recently published books, ones that take into account Professor Dumbledore’s discourse on the twelve uses of dragon blood. I pull out a promising title.

[Regulating Hormone Imbalance in Mid-Weight Dragons]

“Liver,” I whisper into the spine, and the number ‘56’ appears engraved into it for an instant before disappearing. 56 mentions of liver in this book. Promising indeed. I flip to the first glowing page.

“May I have a word with you?”

I jump, swear lightly, drop the book, and swear again. Then I turn around.

The famous Quidditch player has snuck up behind me. Alone, and looking as though he’s just shed a disillusionment charm. He’s still semi-transparent around the edges.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” he apologises. He has a very thick accent. I’m not even sure if I’m hearing everything he’s saying correctly.

I glare at him suspiciously, looking over his shoulder for signs of his followers. There are none. He must have finally gotten sick of them and taken to walking around invisibly.

“How can I help you?” I whisper.

“I’m Viktor.” He offers me his hand to shake.

I take it, still peering around him. “Hermione. You’re not supposed to be invisible in Hogwarts.”

I know he’s not technically a student here, but still… It’s forbidden for a reason.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” he says again, and takes a step back. “I hope I’m not offending you by being so direct, but, I’d like to know how you’re hiding it.”

“Hiding what?” I frown up at him. He’s frowning also. But then he always looks like he’s frowning, so I’m unsure.

He gestures at me. “You. What you are.”

This is a very strange conversation, and it’s making me feel uncomfortable, but there is at least a dozen 5th and 7th year students nearby so I’m not too worried.

“If you mean hiding the fact that I’m muggle-born, you should know we don’t generally have a sign on our forehead declaring us as such. Now if you’ll excuse me.” I pick up the fallen book. It’s stopped glowing.

He’s still standing there, looking dumbstruck. Maybe it’s the first time someone’s stood up to him, but if he thinks he can do wonky faints and get away with being rude, it’s time he was taught otherwise.

“You don’t know,” he says, wonderingly. Then, his face breaks out into a secretive smile. “You don’t know how beautiful you are.”

I blush immediately, feel myself blushing, and blush some more. My eyes flit around. Is this a prank?

“Hermione,” he says, voice deepening, “You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

His voice makes something uncurl in my belly. He takes a step forward. I feel rooted to the spot.

“You’ll go with me to the Yule Ball next week,” he says, in an even deeper, lower voice. His eyes lock to mine.

I nod dumbly.

“Good.” His voice returns to normal. He grins and winks at me. “See you soon, Hermione.”

I stay standing in the same spot for a while after he leaves before I remember what I’m supposed to be doing.

“Liver.”

The pages glow.

 

 

-

 

The Yule Ball is tomorrow.

I know, because I’ve been counting down the days in nervous anticipation. Along with everyone else. Ron finally asked Lavender to go with him, but seeing as he only asked her last night, after rumours that he had been publicly rejected by the Beauxbatons Champion, she really shouldn’t be as happy as she currently is.

Nobody has asked me if I have a date, and I haven’t told anyone. Sometimes it feels like a dream, or a big joke. But I bought a dress anyway. It was very expensive because I had to have it custom-made at the last minute. My parents didn’t mind. It’s a dark pink and reminds me of flower petals.

There’s a tapping on the window. An owl looks balefully in at us, feathers white against the sky.

One of the boys go to open it. Neville. He takes the letter.

“It’s for Hermione,” he says, walking over to hand it to me.

Everyone stares. “Who’s sent you a letter? _At night?_ ” asks Lavender, sitting up with interest.

I shrug and put down my quill. “Thanks Neville.” I rip the envelope open. Parvati reads aloud over my shoulder. “Wear your hair up tomorrow,” she squeaks breathlessly. “Who’s V?”

I’m blushing again. That just makes it worse.

Lavender leans over then snatches the slip of paper from my hands. She shrieks excitedly. “Who’s V, Hermione?”

The boys are rolling their eyes and going back to their Quidditch talk. Harry looks at me for a moment like he’s seeing something that concerns him.

 

-

 

I’m so proud, I think. Walking into the Great Hall on the arm of the most famous Quidditch player in the world, everyone looking. I’m busy trying not to trip, and smiling nervously at no one and nothing in particular, but I can see them goggling at us out of the corners of my eyes.

Viktor’s prouder, smugger, and acting like he’s the one showing me off. Like he’s seen something in me no one else has. And I want to believe that, that finally someone sees that under all my struggle to belong to this world, I am still a girl, a proper girl, but he has this mischievous grin on his face like he _had_ seen something in me, and he was showing it off- not me, but the fact that he had found me.

We descend the stairs.

“I like your hair,” he says to me. It’s piled up on the top of my head in smooth curls. It took hours to achieve this. There are some permanent measures I can take to make it stay smooth and straight, but I kind of like my hair the way it is.

“Thanks.” I look at him. He’s in burgundy and has a fur cape draped around one shoulder. I wouldn’t have thought him my type, but he asked me, and here we are. He’s really very handsome, I think, in a rugged kind of way. “I- uh, I like your cape.”

People are whispering. Some crane their necks. Some are even standing. They look floored, like they’d seen something they once thought mythical. They can’t believe their famous Quidditch keeper has me, the resident swot, for a date. I can’t blame them. I can hardly believe it myself.

Viktor steers me towards the other champions all already waiting in the middle of the Great Hall, right in front of the row of dressed-up professors and ministry officials. None of them look very happy. Professor Karkaroff is placating the Minister of Magic. He gestures slowly with open hands. “I can assure you there is no malicious intent…” I hear him say, before the music begins and we are swept into the first waltz.

“What’s happening there, you think?” I ask Viktor, as we go through the motions. He laughs a full-throated laugh and spins me.

“They’re not very happy with me.”

“What did you do?” I ask. He’d probably been caught prowling around invisible. I did warn him. But then, even that wouldn’t have involved the Minister of Magic. Whatever he did had to have been really out of line.

He appears to think for a moment, and then says, “They think I stole something.”

I’m flabbergasted, and falter through the next few steps. I spot Lavender and Ron amongst the blur of staring faces. Lavender is whispering in his ear.

“That would be a serious accusation!”

He laughs again, and spins me again, and when we come together again, my hand resting on his arm, I giggle a little. His laughter is contagious. “Don’t joke about such things. You didn’t actually steal anything, did you?”

“Finders keepers,” he says cryptically, wearing a wide smile. He looks a lot less moody when he smiles.

“Ha ha. Very funny. I know you play Keeper and all, but I highly doubt that sort of childish excuse will hold up in court.”

It’s his turn to look flabbergasted. “I’m a seeker, Hermione.”

“Seeker, finder, stealer, however you want to name it…”

“No. What? No! I play Seeker. In Quidditch.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologise sincerely. I may not care for the game, but I know it’s important to him. The tempo of the waltz is slowing, and we follow suit. “Well, what do they think you stole?”

“You,” he says. The song ends. We separate and bow to each other, and as the first smatterings of applause begins, he puts his thumb in his mouth, sucks on it, and then rubs it quickly along my collarbone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter last edited: 27/7/2019


	2. Chapter 2

I recoil, shocked and disgusted. Gasps intersperse with the clapping, which dies off quickly.

“What are you doing?” I try not to sound too alarmed; there are people watching, but I’m confused and not a little angry. I really want to wipe at my collarbone, but I don’t want to touch his spit.

Viktor is smirking down at me, which distresses me further.

Professor McGonagall comes to my rescue. She’s followed by Professor Karkaroff and a ministry official. The official is wringing his hands. “Mr. Krum, Ms. Granger,” says Professor McGonagall, “If I may have a word.”

We leave the dance floor. The orchestra picks up in volume and couples trickle in in our wake.

Professor Karkaroff is jabbering at Viktor in a low whisper in their own language. He sounds angry. Viktor replies him in short grunts. I can feel where he’s wiped his thumb on me, I can _feel_ it.

When we turn into a corridor, long and empty of curious eyes, I begin to scratch at my collarbone, attempting to use the sleeve of my dress to reach it, still averse to having any more skin make contact with his spit. Tears burn my eyes. “I’m sorry Professor,” I begin, but I don’t really know what to say. What am I sorry for? What _happened_?

“Not here,” Professor McGonagall interrupts, and I fall silent.

She pushes open a door along the corridor. It’s an unused classroom. There are already a whole host of people waiting, mostly ministry officials. The Minister of Magic is there. So is Madam Pomfrey, who is deep in discussion with an old wizard wearing the insignia of a Healer.

They all hush when we enter before descending upon us like a swarm of bees.

“My dear,” says Minister Fudge. “Why did you not report yourself? It’s illegal to conceal your status, you know.”

I stare, uncomprehending. Is he addressing Viktor? Is he addressing me? Just what is happening?

“Now, Minister,” says Professor McGonagall. “As upset as I am that Miss Granger has chosen to out herself in such a public fashion, I think the law intended for the parents of the child to do the reporting, not the child herself.”

‘Well? Where are the girl’s parents then?” demands a tall official in bright yellow robes. “Can we call them in for questioning? Minister?”

“I’m a muggle-born.” I haven’t been concealing my status. And anyway, I didn’t think it mattered, being muggle-born.

No one hears me. They’re talking amongst themselves as though I’m not there.

“I believe the girl is a muggle born,” injects Percy Weasley eagerly. He’s now aide to the Minster. “She’s one of my brother Ron’s close friends.”

I wrinkle my nose. Ron isn’t a close friend, not by a long shot, but I finally understand why he appears to loathe Percy so much.

“Thank you Mr. Weasley,” snaps Professor McGonagall. “I believe that’s common knowledge here in Hogwarts.”

Viktor butts into the circle forming inconspicuously around me. It looks like he’s finished arguing with his Headmaster. Ignoring glares, he sweeps me against his chest protectively. His cape covers my shoulders. Others tsk and cluck their tongues disapprovingly but make no move to separate us, not even Professor McGonagall, who I know loathes such gestures; I saw her take house-points off Hufflepuff when she caught Ernie and Tamsin holding hands in class.

Embarrassed and angry, I blush and wriggle away, but Viktor wraps an arm around me to tap on the hollow of my collarbone. “Stop moving,” he growls. I stop, surprised.

“She’s not for you,” someone calls out.

Minister Fudge raises a mollifying hand, then crosses his arms and scowls at us. “We don’t want an international incident, Mr. Krum. When you signed the Triwizard Contract you were made aware that you have to abide by the laws of-”

I’ve had it. “I don’t think there’s any law prohibiting people from dancing with whomever they please.”

Viktor pushes a finger in the hollow of my collarbone again. “Quiet.”

I quiet. I can feel my pulse against his finger. It’s strangely calming. I turn my face into the warm fur lining of his cape and breathe in the smell.

More sounds of indignation break out.

“She didn’t know,” growls Viktor, in his halting English. “It’s not her fault.”

“Viktor was just having his fun,” Professor Karkaroff joins in. “He’s promised to another back home. There won’t be any problem.”

“That was fun at our expense,” another ministry official grumbles. “He’s marked her. The list will be displeased if they were to find out. And how could she not know? Healer Hewett, perhaps you’ll want to examine her…”

Viktor adjusts his cape around me. I want to burrow into the soft fleecy warmth and never emerge. “I don’t want her to be scared.”

I’m not scared. I’m confused.

“Alright, Mr. Krum. We’ll need assurances from you, obviously. Let’s continue discussions while we have her inspected by the Healers.”

“Hermione,” says Viktor, drawing me out. “Go with your ministry Healers. I’ll come get you later and we can go back to the ball.”

I nod. I follow the healers with Madam Pomfrey staying close behind me.

The door shuts behind us.

 

-

 

There’s something wrong with me. There’s something wrong.

“What do you smell?” asks a Healer in blue. She holds up a little cup with white potion in it.

I smell nothing and tell her so.

It’s not the right answer. Her wand confirms it- the light it’s emitting remains a neutral blue. It’s been blue for the past five minutes.

“What is ‘nothing’? Describe for me please.”

The absence of smell- nothing. I smell nothing at all.

“What do you smell?” Another cup. Another potion, odourless.

The healer is piqued. “Please don’t lie to us, Miss Granger,” she says. “It makes our job much more difficult.”

“Miss Granger wouldn’t lie,” says Madam Pomfrey, looking at me kindly. She takes another cup of potion. She reads the label. “Hm. Here. Try this. Does it smell good? Bad?”

I smell nothing. I start to cry. “Does this mean I’m not a witch?”

“This is an anomaly,” confirms the old wizard who’s been observing, the one named Hewett. “Are you on any potions, Ms. Granger?”

“No, nothing…”

They confer amongst themselves while I sit miserably in a pink cloud of tulle on an observation platform hovering above the ground.

“Perhaps we can bring Mr. Krum in. The compulsions were clearly effective…”

“If it’s possible. My feeling is they won’t allow them in the same room anymore. They won’t take their chances…”

Madam Pomfrey looks back at me. Her wand swishes upwards and silence, heavy and instant, descends like a veil between us. I can no longer hear what they’re saying.

“I need Viktor,” I say loudly. I don’t, not really, but irrational fear is spiking in me and I feel suddenly that he’s my only ally in the whole world.

 Can they hear me? I slide off the platform, panicked. “I’m going to go find him.”

The silence is lifted.

“Please have a seat, Miss Granger,” says the wizened Healer Hewett. “We’re not done carrying out tests.”

“I didn’t agree to these tests. Where’s Professor McGonagall? Where’s the Headmaster? Where’s _Viktor_?”

“Sit down, Granger,” orders Madam Pomfrey. “Healer Moore will fetch your Head of House and see if we can request Mr. Krum’s presence.”

I nod gratefully. “Thanks Madam Pomfrey.”

The Healer in blue slips out.

“If I may,” says Healer Hewett, approaching me and gesturing to his own throat. “Chin up please.”

I lift my chin. He pokes and prods at my throat, my collarbone, and the space between neck and shoulder. “Does this hurt? Does this? Any tenderness? And here? What about here?”

No, no, no.

But there’s a strange sensation in the place where Viktor had rubbed his spit into, and it’s not one I can accurately describe. I want to wash it out with soap and water.

Healer Moore returns with Professor McGonagall and a large burgundy shearling-lined cape hanging over one arm. “Mr. Krum can’t be here right now.” The cape is deposited in my lap. “He says he’ll try and visit you later. He left you this in the meantime.”

I draw it over myself like a blanket. It’s long and heavy and comforting.

“What do you smell?”

There’s no cup of potion. I shrug. “The cape? I don’t know. It smells… nice, I suppose.”

The wand-light is flickering into a weak red before I’ve even finished my sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter last edited: 29/7/2019


	3. Chapter 3

“Well that’s somewhat reassuring I suppose,” says Healer Hewett. He turns to Professor McGonagall. “I’d like to keep her for observation for a few days, if you don’t mind.”

“Does Viktor have a disease?” I ask. Have I caught some kind of magical disease? Did he infect me with his saliva? It’s the only explanation I can think of for what’s going on now.

“No, Miss Granger, you have not caught a disease.” Professor McGonagall looks uncomfortable. Her mouth is a thin line, and her arms are crossed. Speaking to the Healer, she says, “You’ll need Miss Granger’s permission or her parents. Dumbledore is already contacting them as we speak.”

“I don’t mind,” I say quickly. I want just as much to find out what’s wrong with me.

Professor Dumbledore sweeps in minutes later. He’s still wearing his silver satin dress robes. “Ah, is this the student in question?” he asks, twinkling kindly down at me. “I understand, Miss Granger, that you may have some questions.”

I nod fervently. “Yes Professor. What is happening? What is wrong with me? No one will explain anything.”

“That is one of the most deplorable situations to find oneself in, I think,” he says seriously. “I remember just a few years ago, I was having dinner with a very good friend of mine, Nicolas, and he wouldn’t stop alluding to a certain powdered-”

There was some throat clearing from both Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey.

“Ah yes. Miss Granger, you must understand that absolutely nothing is wrong with you at all. Indeed, what you are is a very special kind of witch.”

My breath catches at this. _Special?_ Special _how_?

“Now this is traditionally a conversation that takes places between the witch and her parents, but your parents are muggles and were not cognizant of your designation.” Dumbledore pauses. “It is a very irregular situation. They have just been made aware and have chosen to continue in the vein of tradition and be the ones to have the… _talk_ with you when you go home for the holidays. In the meantime, your school year should proceed as normal.”

“But Professor,” I protest. “How can my parents explain what sort of witch I am if they barely even know what a regular witch is?” Normally I would be gratified by their enthusiasm for the magical world and their willingness to embrace its norms, but the idea of having to wait months to obtain second hand knowledge is aggravating at best.

“If you’re still dissatisfied after, you may approach your Head of House,” says Dumbledore. He turns to Healer Moore who is doing some throat-clearing of his own.

“By Nicolas, you mean to say _the_ Nicolas? Nicolas Flamel?” the Healer enquires interestedly. “Go on and finish your story, Albus…”

 

-

 

Three days of observation at St Mungo’s later, I’d come back to the news that Viktor Krum had withdrawn from the Triwizard Tournament, citing Quidditch commitments, and returned to Bulgaria. It leaves me with a sudden and acute feeling of sadness and betrayal. I don’t know why; it’s not like we were even dating.

To distract myself, I go to the library. Even though Professor Dumbledore assured me that I was not sick, I don’t quite believe him. Why else would the Healers have wanted to conduct tests on me? They had not only been equally tight-lipped on my condition at the hospital but had in fact also quarantined me for the entire length of my stay.

This surely has something to do with the fact that I’m muggle-born?

But it becomes clear after thumbing through several books on magical maladies and infectious diseases: self-diagnosis is almost impossible if you’re not even experiencing any symptoms.

Madam Pince is no help. When I ask her where I can find books about different types of witches, she only recommends books about pure-bloods and the Sacred Twenty-Eight families.

I give up the search.

 

-

 

“A Triwizard tournament with only two champions isn’t as exciting is it?” Lavender rests her chin on her hand. We’re seated in the stands above the lake, listening glumly as Bagman reports what the remaining champions are doing underwater.

“Well certainly not now that the most exciting champion’s taken off.” Rohesia sidles close. She’s a Prewett, and a Ravenclaw, but she spends a lot of time with her Weasley cousins.

Ron agrees. “Diggory’s a prat and the Beauxbatons’ champion is boring.” He’s between Lavender and his cousin in the tier below me and doesn’t seem pleased with the seating arrangement. “This is all your fault, Hermione,” he complains, turning around to give me an unhappy look.

I roll my eyes at him. “How is it my fault, Ronald?” He hates when anyone calls him that, so it gives me great pleasure to see him wince.

Rohesia kicks him. “She’s right, she can’t help being herself. Be nicer _Ronald_. What if you’re chosen to marry her?”

Bagman chooses that exact moment to announce Cedric’s success at retrieving his hostage.

“WHAT??” Ron and Lavender and I exclaim all at once. Ron and I have gone deep shades of red.

The outburst attracts attention. Neighbouring Hufflepuffs shoot us angry glares. We all hastily rise with the crowd to clap and cheer.

“What’s going on here, children?” The Weasley twins have joined us. They’re wearing black and yellow scarves.

“Ron thinks he’ll get Hermione,” Rohesia offers, in between hollering and hooting.

Ron’s spluttering. His ears are turning redder by the second.

The twins chortle. “Ickle Ronnikins hopes he’ll present?”

“Why would he _get_ me?” I cry.

Fred laughs. “No need to be rude, Hermione. Although we all know you’re pining for Krum-”

“Aren’t we all?” says his twin mournfully.

“-there’s already a long list. Ron could very well-”

“Weasley’ll have to off quite a lot of people,” a new voice cuts smoothly in. We look at the newcomer. Avery Gaunt, a dark haired Slytherin sixth year boy, who had clearly been passing through and overheard our conversation. Fred and George wear identical expressions of distaste.

“And you know that how? Been looking at the list yourself?” Fred asks.

“Probably already figured out how many people _he_ has to off. _If_ he even presents,” said George.

Avery sneers. “I’d pass anyway. Maybe the Weasleys don’t mind but Gaunts only marry pure-bloods.”

Everyone laughs jeeringly at that, even Lavender. Even the listening Hufflepuffs. I’m way too confused to be offended.

“Hard not to only marry pure-bloods if you only have pure-bloods to pick from,” says Harry. He’s carrying a large glass of butterbeer from wherever he managed to sneak it from and is picking his way towards us, trying not to spill any of the liquid. He’s followed by Neville and Cetus.

“What,” I elucidate, trying to be as patient as possible, “are you all ON about?”

“Hi,” says Cetus. “It’s true. They all think they know what they want until they present. Like my father, apparently.”

“Your father??”

“The illustrious Lord Black,” Neville drawls sarcastically.

“Don’t let him hear you call him that,” says Harry. “Anyway, if it ever comes to it that you only have muggle-borns to pick from, I’m sure I’ll see you marrying a muggle-born.” He grins at Gaunt. “Maybe even a mugg-”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” hisses Gaunt.

I ignore him. “I know who Cetus’s father is.” Even the muggle-borns know who Sirius Black is. When Cetus was sorted into Slytherin, he came storming in the next day demanding a re-sort. It was very dramatic.

Now, normally I hate admitting I don’t know something; I’m afraid of being looked down on. But the library has failed me, the adults have failed me, and everyone else clearly knows something I don’t. I have to swallow my pride and ask my peers. “I don’t understand. What are they presenting? What is this list?”

“What are they presenting?” repeats Cetus. He’s literally looking down at me from where he’s finally seated himself one tier above. “I- Are you- I still don’t understand Gryffindor humour,” he finally says, looking to Harry and Neville for help.

“Hermione…” Harry pierces me with that same concerned look I’ve seen on him, the night before the Yule Ball. “Hermione you do know what you are, right?”

I shake my head. “I’m a witch?” I say weakly. I know that’s not what he means, but…

“Oh, she really doesn’t know,” says Rohesia quietly. Lavender has her hand over her mouth. The boys are looking at me wide-eyed.

“And this,” declares Avery Gaunt, “is why I will be passing on muggle-borns even if I present.” He walks off.

“Don’t listen to him,” says Fred.

“He’s a git,” adds George.

“You know what an Omega is?” asks Rohesia.

“Yes,” I reply quickly, relieved to be back in familiar territory. I _do_ know this. “One of the symbols in Runes, frequently meaning the End, or the Ultimate, or even Destiny. Its origin is-”

“No, no… It’s a type of witch.”

It turns out that where the adults were reticent, my fellow schoolmates are more than willing to educate me.

“Very rare,” Cetus adds. “Their counterpart is the Alpha.”

“Always a wizard,” Neville contributes. “Also rare.”

“But not as rare as the Omegas. Who are getting _rarer_.”

“If the wizard is an Alpha he presents at seventeen,” Ron says. “Both Charlie and Bill presented. I dunno about the Omegas though…”

“Omegas present at puberty,” says Rohesia.

“Ah.” I am beginning to understand. “It’s genetic then…”

Cetus nods. “It’s usually confined to the pureblood families. I suppose that’s why everyone was surprised when you presented.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Voldemort, no wizarding wars. A lot of wizarding families that are extinct in canon are still flourishing here.  
> Chapter last edited: 29/7/2019


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hold tight- we will jump through time fairly quickly.

I stare. I’d known where this conversation was leading to, I suppose, but it it’s still a shock to hear. At least I now have a name for what I have. Or what I am, apparently.

Omega.

I can work with that, I think.

“And what makes them different?” I ask.

That’s where everybody appears stumped or uncomfortable. Lavender giggles. Harry shrugs. Ron has a little crease in his forehead like he gets when he’s asked to answer anything in class.

“They’re just... different,” says Cetus hesitatingly. “You should talk to your parents about this.”

Cedric Diggory’s head breaks through the surface of the lake. We all stand automatically and applaud. He makes his way slowly to shore, dragging Cho Chang with him; her long hair floating like seaweed in the water.

“There’s a doomed romance there,” Lavender snickers.

“You should probably talk to her.” Rohesia leans down to speak in my ear as we watch Diggory wrapping the shivering girl in a thick towel. “She’s the only Omega outside of Slytherin. Besides you of course.”

The stands begin slowly emptying of people. After over an hour of sitting and staring at the lake, very few are interested in waiting for the judges’ scoring, all confident that Diggory would receive high marks. Fleur Delacour hadn’t even managed to rescue her sister.

“What sort of Champion gets trapped by _Grindylows_?” says Cetus scornfully. “I actually feel embarrassed for her.”

 

-

 

The train compartment is overly crowded. There are ten of us in here, not counting six owls who all screech and hoot intermittently. I’m squished, open book in lap, between one of the Patil twins and the window looking out into the busy corridor.

We’re almost at Hogwarts so everyone is occupied either changing into school robes or visiting compartments, catching up with friends and showing off the things they got over the summer. Through the smudged glass, I see Harry striding in our direction. The compartment door slides open and he barges in.

“Oy, where’s my snitch?” he asks immediately. “I know one of you girls stole it. Dean told me.”

He’s met with a sea of innocent-looking faces.

“We didn’t know you had a snitch, Harry,” someone says. “It’s not something you ever talk about.” It’s followed by a series of barely-suppressed giggles.

“Right,” says Harry. He starts hauling random luggage off the racks, ignoring all the loud protesting. I move my knees out of the way. It’s becoming impossible to read. One of the bags falls onto an owl cage. Its metal door springs open, and the bird flies out screeching madly. Someone throws themselves sideways, jostling me. My head hits the glass window.

“Argh!” I grunt, fed-up. “Stop it! It’s with Ginny! Ginny’s got your blasted snitch.”

“Hermione!” Ginny cries. “Why’d you go and snitch on me for?”

There’s more loud giggling. I ignore them; I’ve just seen Cho Chang walking down the corridor alone, and I’ve been wanting to catch her. I jump up and exit the compartment, squeeze past several second years, an annoyed trolley witch and her trolley stacked high with sweets and pastries, to tap Chang on the shoulder.

She looks over her shoulder and smiles politely. “Yes?”

I introduce myself. “Can I talk to you in private?” Something gold and shiny buzzes overhead and we flatten ourselves against the wall as a few boys hurtle past us. It would appear Harry’s recovered his snitch. “Uh, later that is. When we get to school.”

She raises an inquisitive brow. “I don’t know if I’ll have time later. Why don’t we just talk now. The Prefects’ carriage should still be empty.” She pinks slightly. “I just came from there.”

I remember that she’s dating Cedric Diggory. “Alright.”

We make our way to the end compartment and slide the door shut behind us. I’ve never been in here before. It’s cleaner; the leather seats are less worn and there are no empty sweet wrappers in the corners. Strings of pennants displaying each House’s crest hang from the ceiling. A pang of envy crosses my heart; I had been hoping to be made Prefect this year.

We seat ourselves facing each other. “I was hoping for some clarity,” I begin. “On… on our situation.”

The only thing I am sure about, with regard to Omegas, is that it appears to be a somewhat delicate subject.

Her face lights up with immediate understanding. “Who is it?” she asks.

_Who is what?_

“Never mind, you don’t have to tell me. Whoever it is, are they already on the list? Obviously Cedric’s not on it yet. But he’ll present, I know it.” I can hear the desperate hope in her voice.

“What is-” I rub my temples. “I’m sorry. Can you please explain from the beginning? I don’t know anything about a list or presenting or who is or isn’t on the list.”

She stares. “Didn’t your family tell you? Haven’t you been matched yet?”

They had, in fact.

“ _You’re an Omega, Hermione!”_

That had been the gist of it.

“My family are muggles,” I say. “They don’t know anything. Can we start with what an Omega is?”

“Alright,” she says slowly, wearing the uncomfortable look I’ve come to associate with this topic. “Omegas are a type of witch.”

I could scream.

“Go on,” I prompt, forcing myself to remain calm. “What’s wrong with them? Why does no one want to talk about them?”

She frowns. “You mean _us_. Well, it’s like talking about sex. But weirder.” She sits up straighter. “Right, you know how you can tell if someone is an Omega or an Alpha by their smell?”

I shake my head no. Things are beginning to make sense. All those tests at the hospital, and everyone assuming I already knew I was different. “Smells… We smell?” My nose scrunches in distaste. “That sounds… gross. Do I smell right now?”

She frowns again. “It’s not gross. And you do smell. I mean you smell nice-” She sighs frustratedly. “It’s hard to explain, and it’s strange that you can’t tell. That’s a pretty big part about being an Omega. Maybe you just don’t know what it is you’re smelling.” She purses her lips quickly to one side. “What do I smell like to you?”

“Um. I don’t know. I can’t really smell anything from here,” I say. “Is it probable that everyone’s made a mistake?”

“You smell like Omega to me.” She shrugs. “Try coming closer.”

I cross the short distance between us and bend my head close to her. This is weird. “Maybe shampoo?” I guess, squinting in concentration. “Roses?”

“Yeah that’s my shampoo.” She laughs. “I think you’re the first person to actually notice I use rose shampoo. Everyone else just smells Omega. Try smelling my neck.” She loosens her blue-and-bronze tie and pulls her hair into a ponytail.

“Okay.” This is _very_ weird. I lean closer. “What exactly am I supposed to be-”

The door slides open with a startling bang and I scoot backwards.

“Kinky,” someone comments. Avery Gaunt stands in the doorway, arms folded. A green and gold badge glints on his chest. “Hm. I didn’t know they let Omegas become Prefects nowadays.”

My jaw drops. “ _You’re_ the new Head Boy?” Of all the unfair things in the world. “And why wouldn’t they let Omegas be Prefects?” I add in indignation.

He begins laughing, almost howling with uncontained mirth. “Who would listen to them?” he manages in between gasps of laughter.

“Oh sod off, Gaunt,” Cho Chang snaps.

It only makes him laugh harder. Finally, he straightens. “This is _my_ carriage,” he says. He points accusingly at me. “You. I’ve heard enough about you from my family this summer to last a lifetime.” His finger moves to Cho Chang. “And you. Don’t think I don’t know what you and Diggory get up to in here. Both of you out now.”

 

-

 

A witch and wizard gripping hands smile falsely at me from the front of their shiny pamphlet. ‘MALFOY GLOBAL ASSET MANAGEMENT’ reads the bold green heading.

“I’ve read this three times over and I still don’t know what it is they do.” Lavender’s face is hidden behind the pamphlet, but I imagine she looks annoyed.

“Our dad works there,” says Parvati. “And even I don’t know what he does.”

“Manage assets, probably,” says Ron sagely, mouth bulging with potatoes. Almost all the Gryffindors had their Careers Advice appointment with Professor McGonagall today. The remainder are due to see her on Monday. I haven’t received the note with my appointment time yet, but really I’m too busy revising to remind her.

Lavender folds the pamphlet with a sigh. She picks up another one. “Black and Malfoy Apothecaries,” she reads out loud. “A global potions company based in London. At Black and Malfoy Apothecaries we strive to set the standard for quality, safety, innovation… urgh.” She puts down that pamphlet too. “This is really stressful. I wish somebody would just decide for me.”

“Your OWL results will probably decide for you,” I say, shutting _‘Core Principals of Animal Physiology for the NEWT Transfiguration Student’_ with a snap.

Ron snatches it from my hands. “Why are you reading a NEWT textbook?” he demands. “You don’t even need to take the NEWTs.”

“Nobody _needs_ to take the NEWTs, Ron,” I say nastily, taking back the book and stuffing it into my bag. “ _You_ certainly won’t be taking them, at the rate you’re going. They’re not going to let you copy from me in the exams, you know.”

I swing my leg over the bench and depart hastily before Ron can think of a comeback. Lavender’s already reading from another brochure. “Oo this one’s a fashion brand!” she squeals excitedly. “Maison Malfoy, a family-run multi-national… wow, do the Malfoys own everything?”

 

-

 

The steady scratching of quills on parchment fills the small circular room. I pause my own writing to appreciate it; I think it might be my favourite sound in the world. Around me my classmates whisper to each other under their breath. We’re technically supposed to be solving a problem alone, but it’s clearly confusing people.

Professor Vector is reading a magazine upside down. On the blackboard beside her, she’s written out the problem in chalk. I read it for the fifth time.

**‘Jack is planning the optimum time to meet Rose for a date in London. He knows that Rose is twenty-five years old and an only child. If Jack has calculated that their date must take place at seven thirty-five PM on a Friday during the waning gibbous lunar phase when the moon is 72% illuminated and at latitude: 0° 59' North, Longitude: 132° 10' East, when was Jack born?’**

I bite my cheek, attempting to add numbers in my mind, and bend my head to scribble the necessary equations, whispering also. “Kappa, epsilon, omicron, beta…”

My partner, Daphne Greengrass, yawns audibly and puts her blonde head in her arms. Normally I sit beside Padma Patil but she’s been excused for Careers Advice with Professor Flitwick. Arithmancy is a very small class and they’ve combined all the houses for it.

I sneak a glance at her calculations and immediately spot the glaring error. “The moon position’s a red herring,” I whisper, unable to keep myself from correcting her.

She lifts her head. “What?”

“The moon position’s not relevant to his birthyear.” No wonder people are having trouble with the problem. They’re probably making the same mistake.

“Oh!” She perks up. “Thanks.”

“Yeah no problem,” I smile wryly, watching her cross out the wrong equations. “Didn’t make sense that he would be thirty-nine, did it?”

“Sure,” Daphne snorts, casting me an odd look. We resume writing, and after some time, she pauses to give me another look. “I’m really impressed you can still find it in yourself to care. But I suppose he’s letting you continue after your OWLs?”

I lower my quill and give her a quizzical glance. “Who?”

She returns the expression. “Your fiancé? Who is he by the way? I haven’t seen an official announcement.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter last edited: 31/7/2019


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely comments and kudos. New chapter for you.

I stare at her for a long second then laugh nervously. “Daphne, I don’t have a fiancé.”

“Oh!” She looks taken aback. “Don’t worry,” she soothes. “You’ll get one. It’s probably just taking them awhile to inform you.”

“What?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t immediate for me either. I was rejected by two on account of my possibly having a blood malediction.”

“What?? -Oh!” I curse and jerk my quill back. It’s made a huge ink blot on the parchment. Professor Vector looks up from her magazine to glare at me, and I whisper a hasty apology.

“I know! There’s really only a one in five chance that I could have inherited it, but I guess even that’s too risky for _some_ people.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not as though we grow on trees.”

This is clearly Omega related. “I’m sorry to hear about the blood malediction,” I tell her sincerely. I’ve never met anyone with a hereditary curse; it’s that rare. We haven’t even covered it in any of our subjects. I’m actually interested to learn more about hers. But this isn’t the time.

I pull out my wand and try and carefully siphon off the ink. “Why would you have a fiancé though? Aren’t you uh, much too young? Can’t you not have one?”

She frowns like that’s never crossed her mind. “I don’t think so,” she says uncertainly. “It’s what Omegas do. And anyway, I don’t mind getting married. But I do wish I could _choose_ my husband.”

I sit up, abandoning my task completely.

“Obviously Rowle’s okay. Our families go way back. But that’s after I got passed over by Lestrange _and_ Malfoy. It was a real cock up, honestly, and I was depressed for months. My parents hired a famous cursebreaker from Indonesia, but he told them it would…”

She’s still talking but I’m no longer listening. There’s a ringing in my ears.

I stand up. Professor Vector calls my name, but I’m afraid if I open my mouth to respond, I’ll be sick. I stumble out of the classroom.

 

-

 

Professor McGonagall transfigures a sheaf of parchment into a napkin for me to blow my nose into. I ignore it, letting the snot run down my face.

“Is this why you never called me in for Careers Advice?” I wail, shaking with rage and betrayal. “Is this why you never call on me to answer questions in class anymore?”

Professor McGonagall at least has the decency to look contrite. “Miss Granger, I am sorry you feel that you have been estranged from your peers due to your new status, but the one has nothing to do with the other. I don’t call on you in class because I want to give the other students a chance. You have already proven yourself to be very knowledgeable.”

I preen a little at the praise, and then break down again, crying morosely. “What’s the point of being knowledgeable if I don’t get to _use_ that knowledge?”

She sighs. “Most witches like you do go on to take the NEWTs. Miss Greengrass’ case is unique; her family’s curse sometimes results in an extremely short life-span for females.”

“So that’s why she’s marrying early,” I say. “So she can start popping out children like a broodmare before she dies? That is _disgusting_. Professor don’t you see how vile of a practice this is?”

“It is certainly not a just one,” she agrees. “But this has been the practice between pure-blood families for centuries. It’s written into the law.”

“But I’m not one of them!” I am genuinely glad, for the first time, to be a muggle-born. I can use this.

“I highly doubt an exception will be made for you, Miss Granger. The best thing for you to do now is to wait until a fiancé has been selected for you and negotiate an agreement with him.”

“Thanks for the advice, Professor,” I say, standing. I have absolutely no intention of following any of it; I have a much better plan. I take the napkin and wipe my face, hoisting my bag further up my shoulder.

“Before you go…” Professor McGonagall picks up a quill and looks at me over her glasses. “There is a Career Fair planned for the twentieth. I don’t want you to get your hopes up, but I’ll leave it to you to decide if you want to attend.”

 

-

 

I shake a can in the direction of a trio of fifth-year boys. “Join SLOW today. A small donation will go a long way towards legal fees-”

Cetus stops. “What’s SLOW?”

“I’m glad you ask, Cetus. It stands for the Society for the Liberation of Omega Witches, an oppressed and downtrodden group-”

There’s heckling behind me as several Gryffindors exit the fair, different-coloured company brochures and branded promotional merchandise in arms. I pause to throw a dirty look at the offenders.

“What are you liberating them from?” asks the boy next to Cetus. Terence Higgs, I think he’s called. I can’t decide if he’s being sarcastic. He does look genuinely curious.

“From the highly discriminative and patriarchal practices-”

“Oh do let’s go,” Cetus implores. “I’m late to meet my mother, you know how she is…”

I shake my can at them and move to block them from entering the marquee. “Stop interrupting me!”

“Just give her the donation, quick,” advises the third boy, another Slytherin, Theodore.

Cetus pokes his tongue in his own cheek and huffs an exasperated sigh. He digs around in his inner robe. I hear the heavy clanking of coins. “Harry warned me to avoid you,” he complained. “I thought it was another one of his weird pranks…”

“You too.” I thrust the can out menacingly at the other two boys. “We need as many supporters as we can get.”

They groan and grumble and begin pulling out sickles and galleons.

“Go SLOW!” the can squeaks merrily as it eats each coin.

I thrust various paraphernalia into their arms. There are badges, hats, and scarves. “Brilliant. We’ll meet every Thursday evening in-”

“Oh, no…” Cetus moans, looking beyond me. “It’s my aunt, oh I hate seeing her, she always compares me to my cousin, it’s awful, hide me- Oh Hello Aunt Narcissa!” His voice takes on a chipper tone and he’s plastered a smile to his face.

I turn around, mildly interested. A tall, thin blonde woman in grey floor-sweeping robes approaches.

“My dear Cetus.” She has a strangely deep voice for someone with such a frail looking physique. She angles her face towards me for a second, frowning a little, and then turns her attention back to the three boys. “I was just stepping out for a breather. It’s a bit of a zoo in there. Ah. Hello Theodore, Terence.”

The other boys greet her, and I learn that she is Lady Malfoy. The name is familiar.

She enquires after their exams. “Your mother has confided in me her anxieties for what your OWL results might be,” she says, turning her face to Cetus. “I presume Quidditch has been taking up all your time? I advised her not to worry. After all Draco played Seeker and still managed to score seven Outstandings. Although of course not everyone can be as gifted…”

Cetus is clearly struggling and failing to keep his annoyance in check. “Yes, well,” he replies pithily, “I think that was also the year Slytherin came in last for the Quidditch cup for the first time in fifteen years.”

His friends look highly entertained, but his aunt only shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. “One must prioritise. Quidditch or academic results? I think Draco made the right choices… Graduates of high caliber have been increasingly difficult to find and I fear the current and next batches just don’t look so promising…”

I clear my throat.

They all turn in surprise, apparently having forgotten me.

“Last year’s cohort was the best-performing in over fifty years,” I say, crossing my arms. “They scored an average of three Outstandings each. And this year’s cohort is expected to do better.”

I’m in this year’s cohort, so we really ought to. Unless of course Ron fell asleep in the exams like he did in the mock tests.

Narcissa Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” she says pleasantly.

I brush off my schoolmates’ attempts at a formal introduction. “I’m Hermione Granger,” I say.

In fact, now that I’ve got their attention…

“Everyone from last year’s cohort progressed to their sixth year,” I continue, voice growing in pitch. “From this year’s cohort however, at least one female student will be forced to drop out, due to a barbaric and outdated-”

Narcissa Malfoy claps her hands delightedly. “Ah I should have realised! I wondered of course why there was an Omega here that I didn’t know. The families are all so very close… I thought you were perhaps an exchange student. But of course, this makes much more sense…”

“Err,” I say, not expecting this reaction at all.

The boys take advantage of her distraction to make quick farewells and depart.

Narcissa Malfoy slots her arm in mine and begins pulling me into the immense marquee. “Come. Have you visited our booths?” She laughs and I am again startled by the deepness of her voice. “Where is he- really, we have too many booths, or too many companies rather. But I do like volunteering for the Career Fair. Gives one something to do, you know…”

I bite my lip worriedly. I don’t want to go look at her booths. I want to recruit more members to join SLOW. Although Narcissa Malfoy is a female pureblood- they’re something like socialites, when they’re not being unfortunate broodmares. If I could get her to join my cause, it would really gather traction.

We press onwards through the throng of students and visiting adults. Narcissa Malfoy is still talking, but her voice is lost in the general noise. Suddenly she stops. There’s a couple blocking our way.

The woman is tall with long, dark and wavy hair, and a haughty expression on her face, and she’s accompanied by a man almost her carbon copy, with shoulder-length hair and heavy-lidded eyes that recall squid-ink and petroleum. He frowns and sniffs the air subtly. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t seen his nostrils flaring out slightly. Immediately, his eyes lock on to me. He smiles.

I’m taken aback, but I smile as politely as I know how.

The woman with him smiles also. “Cissa,” she greets. At least I think that’s what she said. It’s very hard to hear in this crowd; on top of the chattering students, many companies’ presenters have given their voices a magical boost in their attempt to draw attention to themselves.

“Bella,” says Lady Malfoy.

“Is… … girl then? My, the Malfoys … desperate if … a bride … mudbloods…” The other witch lifts her chin as she talks. What little I can hear of her speech drips with disdain.

I try and pull my arm out of my captor’s grip. I have no interest in listening to pureblood gossip. Narcissa Malfoy refuses to let me go. The crowd thins a little around us and I manage to hear her response.

“You’re a hypocrite, Bella. What I’d like to know is what you’re doing creeping around Hogwarts and dragging Sebastien with you. You never come to the Career Fairs. That reeks of desperation if nothing else.”

The man- Sebastien, I assume, who until that point had been ignoring the two women and just been staring almost unblinkingly at me finally speaks. “I would like to be introduced,” he says softly. He leans in. His nostrils flare again. Somehow it doesn’t sound like a request.

A new voice, deep and velvety smooth, speaks up behind us. “Then that makes two of us, and I rather think I get first rights. Hello Mother, Aunt Bella, Seb…”

I feel Narcissa Malfoy heave a silent sigh of relief. Sebastien looks chagrined. “Draco,” he says curtly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter last edited: 31/7/2019


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who left comments and kudos. I really appreciate your time and patience.

I turn to face the newcomer, a man dressed in dark grey robes cut similarly to a muggle suit. He has fine slicked-back blonde hair and almost colourless eyes. He bends to peck his mother on the cheeks.

“What about that introduction then?” Sebastien asks dourly.

Lady Malfoy smiles thinly. “Miss Granger is apparently more than capable of introducing herself.” There’s a strange message hidden in the tone she uses- polite but guarded. She’s probably trying to warn them all about SLOW.

I couldn’t care less; it’s too late for them.

“Yes, thank you Lady Malfoy. I’m Hermione Granger,” I say, waving a small ‘hello’. “And I’m very pleased to have the opportunity to talk to all of you about the newest non-profit organisation born right here in Hogwarts, the Society for the Liberation of Omega Witches. Or SLOW, if you will.”

Ignoring the looks of confusion on their face, I plough bravely on. “It recently came to my attention that these women have been unfairly marginalised by the wizarding world. Our group aims to shed light on the oppressive and obscure laws pertaining to Omega rights. Our long-term aims are to influence local and international laws as well as to help write policies on reproductive and marital rights.”

Now my audience looks nothing short of astounded. They’ve remained courteously silent throughout my entire speech. The dark-haired woman’s mouth is slowly falling open. I’m pleased to have made such an impact.

Her son Sebastien sneers. “Is this a joke?”

I chuckle. “Believe me, that was the very question on my mind, when I first found out about this.”

His mother blinks several times before snapping her mouth shut.

Lady Malfoy is attempting to catch her son’s eye, whom initially rendered speechless by my earnestness like the others, now has a slow smile tugging at his mouth. “This is certainly different,” he finally says.

His Aunt Bella has drawn herself to her full height, shoulders thrown back. “I presume you’ll both be declining,” she says. “Again.”

Draco Malfoy steps forward and offers me his hand, lips quirked up. “I’m Draco Malfoy,” he says, bending his neck slightly towards my upturned face. “Why don’t we take a closer look?”

“Okay.”

“Draco.” His mother’s voice is tight; I can hear the slight strain in it.

“Mother,” he replies. There’s a note of warning in his. He hasn’t let go of my hand. “Let’s go to one of our booths,” he tells me. “We can discuss your project there.”

“I’ll come,” says Sebastien. His own mother grabs his arm, but he brushes her off. “I’m also interested.”

Perfect.

We wend through the aisles as a group before coming to a standard white booth with an arch over the entrance displaying the logos of various Malfoy companies. When we pass under the arch, the space transforms into a wide floor that’s already full of students and employees.

One of them, a young witch carrying a clipboard, detaches herself from the crowd to hurry over. “Mister Malfoy, Mister Lestrange, Lady Malfoy, Lady Lestrange,” she greets, so quickly it’s evident she’s used to speaking like this. She pivots to face just the Malfoys. “I’ve compiled a list of the interested families as you’ve directed, and-”

Draco Malfoy raises a hand. “Not now,” he says, and she nods and scurries away.

“Look! It’s the Malfoys!” I hear a distinctly feminine voice squeal. “And the Lestranges!”

I would know that irritating voice anywhere. I swivel to locate its source and spot three shockingly ginger heads by an enquiry desk. Lavender, Rohesia, and Ron are here, and it looks like his sister’s tagging along.

I return their wave and gesture them over. The Weasleys and their cousin are already familiar with the party of adults, but Lavender needs and gets a proper introduction. But she doesn’t even finish saying her name when we are besieged by other students, all clamouring not so subtly for jobs.

‘Isn’t it Hogmeade’s weekend for you?” I ask Ginny, after I’ve been pushed to the periphery by my highly pro-active schoolmates.

She shrugs. “Yeah but I’ve nothing to do there.”

“If you want something worthwhile to do, why don’t you volunteer with my non-profit?”

She shrugs again. “Nah. I’ve heard about it and I think it’s a waste of time, honestly.”

“A waste of- You can’t really think that,” I splutter. It’s exactly that sort of attitude that needs changing. I’m still attempting to recover from her blatant rudeness, when Ron very loudly announces, “My brother Bill crushed your team five hundred and fifty to seventy in his third year.”

Oh, dear God. Somebody needs to medicate the Weasleys.

Ginny’s turning away from me, her bored look shifting to an excited one.

“ _Honestly_ Ron.” Their cousin Rohesia is turning as red as her hair. “Don’t mind him he’s just uh- uh…” She obviously can’t come up with a credible excuse, and I don’t blame her.

“Do you mean William Weasley?” drawls an unperturbed Draco Malfoy. “I’m trying to remember him, but there are _so very_ many of you, it’s hard to distinguish one from another.”

We all stiffen, even Lavender. Some Slytherins around us laugh nastily.

“And where is William now?” asks Sebastien. “I do remember him. He was a few years older than me.”

“In Egypt,” Ginny says proudly. “He’s Gringotts’ best curse breaker.”

“Not for long,” says Sebastien darkly, and his mother smiles.

I don’t like where this is headed so I withdraw from their midst, stepping backwards stealthily until I’m at the edge of the crowd. Then I turn to slip away. But I don’t get two steps before someone clamps their hand around my upper arm.

It’s Draco Malfoy. “Where are you running off to, Miss Granger?” he asks pleasantly.

“Er- the Career Fair.”

“But what about your project? I really would like to hear more about it.”

“Yes, uh, hold on.” I rummage in my satchel for a copy of our manifesto while he looks on amusedly. “Here. This contains all-”

He shakes his head. “It’s too noisy in here,” he says, bringing his mouth close to my ear to exaggerate his point. His breath tickles my ear. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you come by my office in London? We won’t be disturbed there.”

The witch with the clipboard returns. He slips a business card into my hand before moving away with her. “Do contact me, Miss Granger. I’m always on the hunt for people with…” He cocks his head, searching for the right word. “…potential.”

 

-

 

It’s a hot, sunny day; cloudless. We lie on the grass by the lake watching a few sixth year Ravenclaws practicing their mermish with the green-haired folk. Tails slip through and smack the water as they surface to yowl and screech. It’s awful.

“He can’t really get your brother fired, can he?” I ask worriedly. “Lestrange…”

“Probably not,” says Ron. He reaches for another slice of pineapple upside-down cake. “The goblins don’t care for wizard politics.”

“You’re a prat, you know,” I say. “Why’d you go and provoke him for?”

“Eh, Seb’s all mouth,” says Harry. “He likes to make creepy comments, but really he can’t be arsed to do anything.”

“I’d be more worried about Draco,” Cetus adds. He rolls on to his back and yawns. “Can you move the cloud?”

He’s trying to dry out from his swim in the lake and the large, fluffy cumulus I’ve conjured to shade us is in his way.

“Only if you get me ice cream.” We go home the day after tomorrow, and it’ll be two months of boring sugarless treats for me. “Why would you be more worried about Draco?”

“Let’s just say he always gets what he wants. Oi Kreacher!”

There’s a loud sound like a rubber band snapping, and an old, stooping elf appears. “How may I be of service to young master Black?” he squeaks, bowing himself almost in half.

Cetus gestures in my direction. “Ice cream for the lady.”

Ginny raises her head. “I want some, too.”

Cetus acquiesces. “Yeah, okay. Get us whatever Florean’s offering now,” he tells his elf, who bows again and disappears.

“Oh you’re awake,” I say to Ginny, as I use my wand to reshape my cumulus so that it covers everyone but Cetus. I’m still upset with her. “Did you read my manifesto? I put it next to your bed.”

“She’s put it next to everyone’s bed.” Ron stops a Quidditch-related conversation with Harry, Seamus, and Gregory to complain. “Girls shouldn’t be allowed in our dormitories.”

“I think you’re overcompensating, Hermione.” Ginny shrugs out of her outer-robe and winks at Harry when she catches him looking. “You want to fix a problem that’s personal and you’re trying to get everyone else involved in it. Honestly if you don’t like who the Ministry picks for you, just tell your parents to reject them.”

“This isn’t just _my_ problem, Ginny,” I snap. Then- “Wait, what? Daphne said she couldn’t choose not to have a fiancé.”

“Yeah well that’s Daphne’s family. Yours are muggles, it’ll be easy to trick them into not selling you off.”

The ice cream arrives, and everyone crowds round the house-elf. Cetus lets me choose first and I pick the salted-caramel panna cotta.

“It was a really big problem for Bill,” says Ron. “He was supposed to be fiancéd to Isolda Selwyn, and then to Elizabeth Burke, but their families rejected him because they didn’t think we were good enough.” His face turns red and angry. “But joke’s on them all; Fleur’s much prettier than either of them.”

“Fleur?” I inquire, savouring my ice cream with not a little bit of guilt. “Fleur as in grindylow champion Fleur?” That’s what the Beauxbatons champion is unfortunately now known as to everyone in Hogwarts.

“Fleur as in half-veela Fleur,” says Ron smirking so widely you’d think it was him who’d married her.

“Oh look,” Parvati warns. “Head-boy coming our way.”

Cetus shoos off Kreacher, who disappears with another loud snap, leaving behind tubs of labeled ice cream. We all start to shamelessly shovel ice cream in our mouths, sensing that the party is about to be broken up.

“I could see your house-elf from the entrance, you fools,” Avery Gaunt says without preemption, when he reaches us. “That’ll be fifteen points from Gryffindor.”

Several jaws drop. “That was Cetus’ house-elf,” Harry protests. “You can’t take points from us!”

The Slytherins in our group are laughing. Gregory is clutching his stomach and rolling on the grass.

Gaunt sneers. “Oops, I already did.” He looks up. “And who cast that Nebula Formatio?”

Nobody answers.

“I’ll presume it’s the doing of our resident know-it-all then.” He shoots me an ungracious leer. “That’ll be fifteen points from Gryffindor. No magic outside of class.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “What do you want, Gaunt? I already told you I’m not going out with you.”

Now everyone’s laughing.

“Another fifteen points from Gryffindor,” he hisses. He sounds like his Head of House. “Granger’s been summoned by the Headmaster.”

“Ooo,” my friends exclaim. “What did you do, Hermione?”

I pick myself up and dust grass from my robes. “Don’t know. See you in the common room.” I truly don’t know what I’m supposed to have done wrong. Visions of having failed all my OWLs float in my head and make me anxious.

“Did Professor Dumbledore say what he wants me for?” I ask Gaunt as I hurry after him. The last time I spoke to our Headmaster was when he told me I was a very special kind of witch. I still harbour feelings of bitterness.

“Quiet and follow me,” he snaps, picking up his pace. We zip through the entrance hall and into the quad. But instead of taking a right to the marble staircase tower where Professor Dumbledore’s office is situated, he takes us over the stone bridge. I guess whatever I’ve done or not done can’t be so bad if it hasn’t warranted a formal meeting.

When we’ve crossed into the viaduct, we descend a set of narrow spiral stairs. I follow silently, my mind elsewhere. I’m wondering if Cho has convinced her family to reject potential fiancés until Diggory presents. What will happen if he doesn’t?

Our footsteps echo across the stone walls.

“This way,” says Avery. I look up to realise we’re deep in the dungeons and all alone.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask in growing alarm. “Dumbledore isn’t here is he?”

He slows. “Took you long enough to figure out.”

I stop. “This isn’t funny. I’m going back.”

He turns around to face me. Shadows from the lit wall sconces flicker across his face. “You can go back when we’re finished.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder to check tags- they do get updated. Even though we're not there yet, this is a dark story that will contain non-con between the main pairing. Please check warnings and tags before continuing.  
> Chapter last edited: 1/8/2019


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments and kudos for last chapter. I hope you enjoy this one.

I take a step back, my heart pounding. “You’ll be expelled for this!” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds screechy.

“Expelled? For what, exactly? And besides, I’ve technically graduated, Granger. NEWTs are being scored right now and I’ll be surprised if I get less than ten.” He shakes his head scornfully. “And they said you were intelligent.”

I swallow my fear. “I don’t care. I’m going.”

He moves forward, rolling his eyes. I’m just about to turn and run when a door somewhere behind him opens very noisily. Making a split-second decision, I dash towards the sound instead. He jerks back in surprise as I barrel in his direction, jumping quickly out of my way.

After a slight bend in the tunnel, I see that the door to one of the unused classrooms is wide open and a woman leans against it. Her black hair is strewn with white, and she has the type of bone structure that might have rendered her somewhat pretty in her youth if her nose had not been extremely off-centre and her eyes not too close together.

Her arms unfold at the sight of me running to her at breakneck speed. “In here,” she directs in a soft voice, and I run straight in, one hand pushing against the wooden door for support as I make the abrupt turn.

Inside the room sit several wizards. It looks like they’re having a meeting. I come to a halt. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I stammer.

“Don’t dally, Avery,” snaps an old man with a grisly beard, as he looks past me. “Merope, shut the door. The wind is killing my knees.”

I swivel around, gaping. Gaunt brushes by to sit next to the old man. The door shuts.

“So, this is the problematic Omega,” someone comments. “Doesn’t look like much. Why were you running, girl?”

“Attractive enough,” says a blonde wizard. He looks vaguely familiar.

“It’s not about the looks, Thaddeus,” sneers the old man. He makes eye contact with me. “I hear you’re magical enough for a mudblood. Show us.”

My initial fright has worn off and I’m insulted by the slur. “Who are you?” I demand sharply.

Another wizard leans forward. “I see what they mean.” His eyes glitter. “She behaves nothing like a typical Omega. Her dirty blood must be altering the characteristics.”

His frank bigotry is astounding.

I take another tack. Attempt to look simpering and stupid. “Fine. How do you want me to show you my abilities?”

The old man grins crookedly. His lips stretch and crack. “That’s more like it.” He gestures. “Show us a spell. You’re in your OWL year, correct? For a mudblood, I’ll be impressed with any spell you can do that a second-year can.”

That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Not that part about the mudbloods, but the permission I have just been given to pull my wand from my robes.

I do so.

“Okay. Ready?” I ask. I think my smile has become a little deformed because Gaunt narrows his eyes. His Head-boy badge glints as he shifts in his chair. “I must warn you all-” he begins, but doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. I’m already waving my wand smoothly.

“Intruders in room D-fifteen,” I quickly dictate, and the translucent body of an otter emerges head first from my wand. After gamboling nonchalantly around my audience’s stunned heads, it runs right through the ceiling.

Gaunt curses. He leaps up.

I move to let him pass. “Messenger Patronus, silently cast,” I explain, smirking widely. The door slams shut behind me. “I don’t think you’ll find that’s even tested in the NEWTs. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, that message went out to Professor Dumbledore.”

Another half a second of continued stunned silence precedes low, gravelly laughing. The responsible wizard stands. He’s bald with a rust-coloured goatee. “I can recognise something rare and unique when I see one,” he says. “I’ll be putting in my bid.”

“Uh, I’m not marrying you, if that’s what you mean.” I’m quite revolted. “I’m not marrying any of you.”

The door bangs open, and our Headmaster enters, wand drawn. He’s followed by Professors McGonagall and Flitwick.

“You say that, but it’s been ages since I’ve found anything rare and unique in your shop,” one of the blonde wizards, unbothered by the sudden appearance of the Headmaster, complains to the bald one.

The entering professors blink with surprise and lower their wands. Dumbledore casts a penetrating eye over the scene. “To what pleasure do I owe the visit of the Lords Burke, Nott, Gaunt, and Rowle to Hogwarts?” he asks.

The blonde wizard stands. No wonder he looked familiar. He must be Theodore’s father. “This lovely young lady was just showing us around,” he lies blatantly, with a thin-lipped smile.

“That’s not what her patronus indicated,” Dumbledore replies. He looks angry. “Gentlemen, I am disappointed in you. You are well aware that it is not the correct procedure to be holding an audience with Miss Granger without her family present.”

Some of the wizards shift awkwardly. Professor McGonagall puts an arm across my shoulders. “Come on, Miss Granger,” she says, and after shooting the men a disgusted glare, steers me out.

“Shame on you all,” I hear our Headmaster admonishing, before the door closes.

 

-

 

**_Draco Malfoy_ **

****

The name, printed in slightly slanted gold lettering, shines dully in the light as I flip the thick calling card over and over in my fingers.

I’m thinking about what Ginny said. It’s not true at all; she’s wrong. I do want to help all Omegas. This isn’t just about me. But no one else appears to genuinely care. No one else thinks it’s a worthy cause, not even the other Omegas. The only other person who seemed remotely interested was-

 

**_Draco Malfoy_ **

 

I flip the card again. There’s a London address on the other side. It’s in the Square Mile; I could walk there in an hour.

Feeling uncharacteristically impulsive, I jump up to dress and go. It’s a warm day but I wear a nice navy Chanel tweed skirt suit. I’m counting on it to help me look a little older than my age. I want him to take me seriously.

The walk is a lovely one that takes me past St. James Park, through Victoria Embankment, and finally to Cannon Street. Occasionally, confused tourists holding paper maps ask me for directions, and I pause to buy a drink at some point.

By the time I get to St. Swithin’s Lane, where the Malfoys’ offices are located, it’s been well over an hour since I left home, and I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable in my outfit. What’s worse, the building doesn’t seem to exist. I walk around in frustrated circles while sipping my drink, before finally pulling out the business card to make sure I’ve got the correct address.

The moment my fingers touch the card, a silvery-grey building appears, squeezing itself between two others right in front of my astonished eyes. I look nervously around before stuffing the empty bottle in my bag and darting through the ornate gold revolving doors.

As soon as I enter, I realise my first mistake. In the weeks I’ve spent living in the muggle world, I’ve quite forgotten the wizarding one. Everyone in the busy lobby is dressed in floor-skimming robes.

It’s too late to go back and change. And besides, I’m just here to make an appointment. I’ll be back out in minutes. It’ll be okay.

Trying to ignore the strange stares thrown in my direction, I walk hurriedly to one of the receptionists.

“May I help you?” the reception-witch, who has her hair pulled into a tight bun, asks sweetly. “Are you lost?”

“No.” I tip-toe slightly to rest my arms on the high counter. “I’d like to schedule a meeting with Mister Draco Malfoy, actually.”

“Ah,” she says. “You’ll have to speak directly with one of his personal assistants for that. Do you have a business card I can pass to them?”

“No, but I can give you my name…” I write it down for her on a strip of parchment. “I’m studying at Hogwarts, and he asked me to contact him when we met at the career fair…”

“Sure,” says the well-trained reception-witch amiably, as if students dressed in muggle clothing came regularly to request a meeting with one of the company owners. “Please write your address down so the owl will know where to reach you… Great, thanks…” She taps the parchment with her wand, and it catches fire before disappearing completely. “One of the secretaries should reach out to you soon-”

“Is that a modified Transedio charm?” I watch the space where the parchment disappeared, fascinated. Either she’s employing a modified Transedio or the parchment have all been inscribed with runes in invisible ink. I imagine they would use the Salamander and Raido runes at least, maybe the Demiguise one also… “Are those regular parchment?”

She stares for a second then shakes her head. “I don’t know, I just do the charm and off it goes. Hold on a second, please.” A tongue of flame had appeared in a little tray in front of her. It burns out quickly, and the reception-witch picks up the parchment left behind.

“Oh, you’re in luck, Miss Granger. Mister Malfoy can meet you right away. This almost never happens.” She stands, smiling. “I’m to take you straight up. This way, please.”

“Uh, I didn’t actually prepare…” I suck indecisively on my lower lip. “I just wanted to set up a meeting. I can come back at a more convenient time-”

She nods briskly. “Say no more. Witches like you shouldn’t meet non-relations unaccompanied. It’s improper. I quite understand.” She unrolls fresh parchment. “I’ll let them know you prefer to communicate via-”

“You know what, I will take the meeting.” I fold my arms over my chest, pursing my lips in irritation. Her comment makes my blood boil. _Witches like me?_ I am perfectly capable of handling myself. I am top in my year. I tricked a room full of creepy old Lords. I can most definitely take a meeting alone.

“If you’re sure,” she says, and leads me into a private elevator which we ride to the thirtieth floor. It’s a double-volume floor; when the doors open, I’m met with an outstanding and unobstructed view of the river and the skyline.

Another witch emerges from a door on the right and the reception-witch disappears back into the elevator. “Miss Granger?” says the new witch. “Mister Malfoy is expecting you.”

I follow her to a set of enormous mahogany wood doors. She raps sharply on them and they open. Beyond lies what looks like a cross between a portrait gallery and a personal library. Along the right side, the structural glass windows offer the same view of the flat London skyline. On the left are hung stately portraits of venerable-looking wizards all of whom are blonde with grey eyes. A metal spiral staircase leads up to a loft and what I can see of it is mostly built-in shelves that are filled to the ceiling with books. At the end of the long room, at a large table, sits the dark-suited figure of Draco Malfoy. Behind him is a cartographic wall-map.

The witch enters ahead of me. “Miss Granger to see you, Sir. Would you like me to stay and take notes?”

He looks up. “There’s no need. Come, Miss Granger.”

The doors shut behind me. I walk forward. It’s a long walk, and the portraits all stare eerily at me as I pass each one. “Thanks for taking the time to meet me,” I say. “I would have sent an owl, but I live very close by and I don’t have an owl…”

I reach him.

He remains seated, sharp eyes scrutinising and a droll expression adding a slight smirk to the mouth. “You don’t have an owl?” I feel his gaze rake me from head to toe, lingering on my legs.

“I’m really sorry,” I apologise, feeling extremely self-conscious now. “This is considered appropriate dress for business meetings in the muggle world, and…”

Regardless of what my friends think, I do feel stupid often. This is one of those times.

“No, no.” He stops me. “Most muggle-borns overcompensate. I find your shamelessness quite refreshing.”

I frown to hide my embarrassment. I am self-aware enough to realise that I am guilty of overcompensating. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of in being a muggle-born,” I say stiffly.

“Of course not,” he soothes. “Please, have a seat. Let’s discuss your project.”

I twist my hands together, taking the proffered seat. “I have to apologise. I didn’t expect I’d be meeting you today, so I didn’t bring any materials…” I do know my pitch by heart, and I can just owl him the materials tomorrow, but starting off on the wrong foot has thrown me off balance. Figuratively, of course.

“Let’s start with what inspired you,” he suggests. In the bright afternoon sunlight, his fine blonde hair glows like a platinum hallow, contrasting greatly with his sombre surroundings. It feels like I’m talking to an arch-angel.

I dispel that very muggle perception, and struggle to put coherent thoughts together. “Certainly. Ever since I was told that I was an Omega witch, I have since discovered that there aren’t many resources available to help women like me. No resources, in fact, if you discount-”

He lifts a finger. “You were _told_?”

“Yes, and to add to my point, it was very hard to pull information out of-”

“What do you mean you were told?” he interrupts. “Did you not discover what you were by yourself?”

I frown, biting my lip. “Well I- Could you clarify what you mean by discover? I should think Viktor did the discovering, but I definitely wouldn’t say-”

“Viktor?” he asks coolly. And now he moves, leaning forward in his chair in a creak of leather and metal. “And who is Viktor, Miss Granger?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione lives in Belgravia. She could walk to the Malfoys' offices faster than it would take her to get to Diagon Alley, hire an owl, and send a letter. She turns 17 in a couple of months and cannot yet use magic outside of school.  
> The reason nobody seems to care about Hermione's problem is because just like with SPEW, they don't think it's a real problem.  
> There is no Tom Riddle in this world, but Avery Gaunt is biologically closest to him. He's basically Tom Riddle Lite. Make of that what you will.
> 
> Chapter last edited: 7/8/2019


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for all your chapter comments and kudos and for reading my story. I wasn't going to update this story this week (I'm supposed to be working on Corruption) but after so many lovely comments I decided to prioritise this. Hope you like.

“Uh, Viktor Krum, the Triwizard Champion…”

A brow raises. “You mean the Bulgarian seeker?”

“Yes, he was my date to the Yule Ball, and he was an Alpha so I think perhaps he might have been more sensitive-”

Draco Malfoy interrupts me again. “What did Mister Krum do? Nothing… untoward, I hope?”

“No, he was very kind.” I pause to grimace in memory. “I mean he did sort of rub his spit on me, but that was all, really.”

For a moment, it doesn’t look like he’s breathing at all.

I shift awkwardly. “In any case,” I continue, in a bid to redirect the conversation, “I soon realised that those in positions of authority are not very forthcoming, and most of the information I’ve gathered has come from other students.”

“Naturally,” he says, leaning back. “The families of the Omegas take care of everything. You’re the first muggle-born Omega in recorded history. I would imagine your family to be just as clueless as you were.”

“Sadly, you are correct.” I smile wryly. “With regards to access to information, I am at a disadvantage. But the cultural differences of course more than make up for it. I’m not sure if you are aware, but muggles simply don’t marry so young, and arranged marriages have long ago fallen out of favour.”

He shakes his head slowly and in apparent incomprehension but otherwise doesn’t speak.

“My family would never dream of telling me when to marry,” I elaborate, “or whom to marry. And I certainly don’t intend to marry in the foreseeable future, or worse, be coerced into having children before I’m ready. But other Omegas are not so lucky. And this is where SLOW comes in. One of our goals is to put an immediate stop to the tradition of arranged marriages. Omegas shouldn’t be forced to marry Alphas-”

“How will magical lines continue then?” Draco Malfoy questions, brow raising.

I purse my lips. “Obviously I understand there exists a… desire on the part of many wizarding families to keep their bloodline pure, but that shouldn’t stand in the way of freedom of choice. Most pureblood witches are not Omega, and I see no reason why Alphas cannot choose among that pool instead of insisting on an Omega bride-”

His arms cross over his chest. “But given that Omegas and Alphas can only procreate together, that will create quite a problem. How do you intend to solve for that?”

My eyes widen. My mouth closes slowly.

An understanding smile shoots across his face. “Ah,” he says. “You didn’t know.”

“No,” I stutter, mind working fast. “No, quite frankly, I didn’t. But there are ways to circumvent-”

He stops me, palm out. “Miss Granger, there lies the flaw in your project- it’s not a thoroughly researched one. You cannot hope to influence the system without even knowing why it is the way it is.”

I twist my fingers anxiously. It really wasn’t a good idea to take this meeting unprepared, but I had been over-eager and over-confident and now I’m paying for it. Maybe I can still salvage this. “Let me go away and put together-”

Again, he motions for me to stop, smiling kindly. “I can’t publicly support a cause so mis-informed, and frankly, so detrimental to the survival of wizarding society. You don’t even know the basic facts.”

My shoulders drop. Somehow, having my project pronounced a failure feels worse than knowing I am letting down future generations of Omegas.

His smile deepens. “Don’t look so put-out. I may still be able to help you.”

I blink uncertainly at him and his eyes crinkle with amusement.

“Yes. I am a busy man, but… You are quite an exception, Miss Granger, so for you I’ll make an exception of my time. And I think I can help you in more ways than one. I can instruct you in all things Alpha and Omega so you never have to have a deer-in-the-lamplights moment like that again.”

I thank him profusely and embarrassedly. “I really appreciate your time and support, Mister Malfoy. And I want to assure you-”

“Please, call me Draco.”

I hesitate. It feels too familiar.

“I insist,” he says, voice deepening.

I frown but give in. if he’s going to be my mentor-of-sorts, it does make sense to be on a first-name basis. “Okay.”

“ _Okay, Draco_ ,” he instructs gently. “Say it.”

“Okay, Draco.” A strange thrill runs through me. I bite my lip, resisting the urge to shudder, and try and focus on something else instead.

My eyes catch on one of the documents on his desk.

Peeking out from under a proposal for the merger of two Nott and Malfoy companies is an official-looking request for funding with the Hogwarts crest on the letterhead.  

A selfish thought enters my head. “Uh, I don’t want to take up even more of your time, but I was also wondering whether if I were to have some questions about the NEWTS syllabus, if I could come to you with them… I did hear that you scored very highly…”

“I would be pleased to instruct you in all things,” he responds pleasantly. He really does look and sound like an angel. Benevolent and powerful. “I heard you were interested in my modified Transedio charm. I can show you how I did that if you want.”

“Yes, please,” I say enthusiastically. “Thank you.”

Draco stands. “You go back to Hogwarts in three weeks, correct? Why don’t we set up another meeting a week and a half from now on… the nineteenth? You can floo directly to my office- Ah, I forgot. You’re a muggle-born, you wouldn’t be connected...”

He eyes me thoughtfully as I stand and adjust my skirt. “I will send you a car with an escort.”

“Oh, there’s really no need for that.” My eyes bug out slightly at the idea of being escorted anywhere. “I can make my own way here. It’s perfectly safe.”

“I insist,” he says, moving forward to walk me out.”

I shake my head. _What’s with these witches and wizards?_ “No, thank you,” I say firmly. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but really it’s very safe.”

“Mm.” Silver eyes narrow for a second, then he’s smiling politely and ushering me out. “As you wish.”

 

-

 

“Just…” I stick my tongue in between my teeth as I balance my shopping on one arm in order to cross out another item on my checklist. “…three outstanding. All to be found at the apothecary….”

Mum grimaces. “You can do that alone can’t you, petal?”

She hates the smells of the apothecary, which is weird because she’s an oral and maxillofacial surgeon and has probably been exposed to some rather interesting smells in her career.

I nod. “Of course. Look, Dad’s coming out of Gringotts, why don’t you both go to that healing store we passed-”

Her eyes light up. “Yes, the one with that fascinating moving diagram of the craniofacial development-”

“-right, and we’ll meet at The Leaky Cauldron in an hour?”

“Perfect. Good idea as always, petal.” She takes some of my shopping off my hands and we separate.

I only head off when I see that she’s caught Dad’s attention. Maybe it’s because I’m an only child, but I’ve always been as protective of my parents as they are of me.

The apothecary I usually frequent isn’t very far. I arrive to find it crowded with Hogwarts students. I greet those I bump into while rummaging through the shelves. It’s apparent that I’m doing my shopping a little too last-minute this year. Everything’s jumbled from students placing items back in the wrong shelves, and some items are completely sold out; I can’t find a no. 18 scalpel at all.

“Hiya Hermione,” someone calls, and I turn. It’s Ron.

I greet him quickly, moving out of the way as a girl reaches for something on a high shelf next to me.

“Where are the others?” I ask. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ron travelling alone before. Maybe he’s lost them.

“Around.” He gestures vaguely. “Fred and George went to look for the live Kappa that the new Menagerie’s got, and they’ve stuck me with the shopping.”

“Oh. Well they’re out of the scalpel I need here.” I swivel around to look for a shop assistant, but they all appear to be occupied. “I think I’ll go to B&M.”

“I’ll walk with you,” he offers, which really cements my impression that Ron Weasley cannot spend a minute alone by himself. He’s never offered to walk me anywhere before. “I’m done here, and I really want to look at the Kappa.”

“Sure.” We go to the counter to pay. “You got everything?”

“They ran out of Billywig stings too, but I’ll see if I can get mum to order them instead.” He turns inexplicably red. “We don’t really buy from B&M. Mum says we’d just be paying for the fancy packaging there and we don’t like to waste our money on nonsense…”

 

-

 

We hear the Contemporary Menagerie long before we see it, excited hollering and yelling already audible from one street over. The sounds grow louder as we draw nearer, and soon we can make out distinct voices. I recognise the mischievous tones of one of the Weasley twins. “Put your bum in the tank, Lee, I’ll give you a galleon, go on!”

I roll my eyes. “I hope they know that the shirikodama is just a myth, and the only thing they’ll accomplish is possibly get their friend drowned.”

But Ron isn’t listening. “Later, Hermione,” he says, then zips into the throng, his freckled face alight with anticipatory glee.

I roll my eyes again and continue to the next store.

B&M is a high-end chain of apothecaries. Their store in Diagon Alley is located -somewhat morbidly- right beside a menagerie. I wonder idly and facetiously if they just order their stock directly from their neighbour. It would certainly explain the superior, fresher quality of their ingredients.

The store is cool and dark and silent inside and reminds me of Hogwart’s dungeons. There are no disgusting smells here, except for when a customer unscrews a lid or opens one of the acrylic bins at the end which all hold the cheaper items like poppy seeds and dried berries and beetle eyes.

I’m quite confident I’ll find my scalpel here, albeit for a much higher price.

A shop assistant wearing a clean, starchy apron over midnight-blue robes approaches. “Welcome to Black and Malfoy Apothecaries. Let me know if there’s something I can assist you with.”

“Do you do no. 18 scalpels?” I ask and am thankfully led to a shelf stocked with various scalpels in their protective casing.

“Shall I keep this at the counter for you while you keep browsing?” she enquires, after I’ve picked out a long-handled one that advertises itself to be self-cleaning. “You might also want to take a look at our new arrivals over there…”

I thank her and shuffle lazily over to the area she’s pointed out. Most of the items on the shelves here are ready-made potions and poisons, although there are also stoppered vials full of single ingredients.

I pick up one that holds what appears to be thick flakes of salt.

“Merpeople tears,” I read out loud. “Species Aegean Blue, quantity twenty-five.” I’ve yet to come across a recipe calling for merpeople tears, but I imagine its use involves counteracting the volatility of potions that require both ashwinder eggs and dragons’ blood.

I return the vial delicately to its rack and then tilt my head all the way to the side almost to my shoulder to quickly read through the names of the potions they have for sale.

“Ultra Gnome Repellent, One-Day Acne Away, Omega Phero-clone Spray, Doxy Detox, wait…”

My eyes slide back to the familiar word. I pick up the tiny oval bottle. A single rose petal is suspended in a liquid lightly tinted pink.

“Omega Phero-clone Spray…” I frown at the tiny writing. It’s hard to read in the ambient light. “Mimics the natural scent of an Omega. Intimate spray for intimate forays... What is this-?”

“You don’t need that,” someone says softly behind me.

I jerk my arm back and blush, embarrassed to be caught holding something that has the word ‘intimate’ written on it. Then I turn to face the man who’s sneaked up on me.

“I came for that,” says Sebastien Lestrange, “and look what I found instead. The real deal.”

“I was just browsing,” I say defensively, face still pink.

He reaches out to pluck the bottle from my hands, then unscrews the lid and brings it up to his nose as I watch.

“I make my girlfriend wear this all the time,” he confesses, slowly re-tightening the lid. “And not just in bed, although _especially_ in bed.” He pouts, bloated lower lip sticking out. “It does smell good. But it’s still nothing compared to…” He leans over me and makes a show of smelling my hair. “…the real thing.”

“That’s… That’s flattering,” I manage, trying to sidestep him. _And gross._ “Thanks. Uh. I have to go pay. Excuse me.”

He doesn’t move. “Are you sure you’re a mudblood?” he asks. “Families like mine don’t approve of mudbloods, not even when they come packaged in tiny, fragrant Omega bodies.”

My feet move backwards. The hard edge of the shelves digs into my back. “Quite sure,” I respond, somewhat shakily. “Definitely a mudblood. Very muddy.” My eyes flick to the side, looking for a shop assistant.

He takes a curl of my hair between two fingers. “What a waste,” he comments, voice growing softer yet deeper. “I do think you’d look perfect with black hair. Just like mine. Don’t you think?”

I focus involuntarily on his hair, a soft matte black that hangs to his shoulders. Unlike everyone else, I can’t tell who’s an Alpha by scent- maybe there’s something wrong with me; but he’s clearly one, and I can almost taste the danger.

“Right,” I say. My brain chooses this moment to clam up. “Sure. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

“When do you turn seventeen?” he now asks, still holding on to the lock of hair. He leans his other hand on the shelf, caging me in.

The implication behind that question coupled with everything else he’s said is despicable enough to make my blood curdle. “It’s none of your business,” I snap, pulling strength out of somewhere, and taking back possession of my hair with a quick tug.

He drops his hand, eyes widening in astonishment. “Little Omega has teeth,” he remarks, surprise colouring his voice.

“There you are!” A loud, flat voice rudely interrupts, and relief floods my system.

Ron is striding up. “What are you doing with her?” he demands. Ginger eyebrows knit together. “Is he bothering you, Hermione?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Canon witches and wizards don't practice surgery, but they prepare potions ingredients by hand (chopping and dicing and mashing etc) which I find incongruous. I have Hermione buy a scalpel because I presume (by presume I mean that I've made this up lol) that NEWTs potions would include dissection at the very least.
> 
> What do you think of Draco? Do you agree with Hermione that he is benevolent and powerful?
> 
> Also, google 'Kappa and shirikodama'- you won't regret it.
> 
> Chapter last edited: 2/8/2019


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely kudos and comments for last chapter, it inspired me to keep writing. I hope you like this...

I’ve never been so grateful to see the Weasley tactlessness in action.

Sebastien Lestrange’s brow goes up. “We were just flirting,” he says, pulling reluctantly away.

“No, we weren’t!” I take advantage of the opening to escape, moving quickly to Ron’s side and slightly behind him. “You touched my hair,” I accuse.

“As I said, flirting.” He smiles tightly, all lips and no teeth. “Just a bit of fun.”

“That’s not what she says,” Ron contests loudly.

Another shop assistant appears, a wizard wearing glasses and a wary smile. “Is everything alright here, gentleman?”

Lestrange glances at him. “Of course,” he replies, before frowning slowly down at Ron. “I know you. You’re a _Weasley_. This isn’t the first time you’ve interrupted my fun. I’ll remember that…” His dark eyes move to mine. “Bye for now, Omega.”

We both watch with unfriendly faces as he walks away.

“Won’t be the last time either,” Ron yells at his retreating back, and then in a quieter voice, “Slimy prat.”

I nod fervently. Slimy doesn’t even begin to cover it. “I really hate his voice.”

“Sorry I left you alone,” Ron says sheepishly.

It earns him a glare of suspicion from me. “Why are you apologising? Are you also treating me differently because of what I am?”

“Well, yes.” He blinks uncertainly at my aggressive expression. “I mean _no_! I mean it’s because you’re also a Gryffindor. I wouldn’t care what happened to you if you were a slimy Slytherin Omega.”

It’s my turn to blink, then I double over laughing. We head to the counter, me still laughing, and him looking disturbed and concerned. I don’t know why I find it so funny, but I do.

“Wait! One of these, please,” I tell the shop assistant, pointing at a jar of Billywig stings, and after she’s packaged it up and I’ve paid, present it to Ron. “Here. Thanks for saving me.”

He blushes, ears going red. “Oh, er, cheers, uh, I...”

I wave him off, equally embarrassed. “Oh stop. I figure I owe you anyway- you’ve probably just kicked off a life-long feud with the Lestranges thanks to me.”

He shrugs. “It probably doesn’t matter. We’re not in their circle anyway… Got everything? Let’s go.”

My good mood tentatively restored; I lead Ron out of the shop with a forced spring in my step. “So did the Kappa drown Lee?”

“No.” He looks dejected. “Although they got thrown out of the shop. You were right about the shrieky-thing.”

“Shrikidoma.”

“Yeah, that. How come you know so much?”

I roll my eyes good-naturedly at him. “How come you don’t know anything?”

 

-

 

The sound of something sharp clacking against a glass surface wakes me, and I shift, blearily imagining myself to be in my dorm at Hogwarts where someone’s owl is surely demanding entry into our tower. Probably Lavender’s.

There’s more insistent clacking, and I jolt up in sleepy irritation.

I’m only half wrong; I’m still at home in London, but there actually is an owl perched outside my window. It beats its wings against the glass.

“ _Okay_.” I throw the covers off myself. “I’m coming.”

The moment I push down on the handle and swing open the window, the owl swoops in and deposits an official looking roll of parchment tied up in white ribbon onto my table, along with a lime-green envelope bearing the St. Mungo’s emblem. Having done that, it picks a picture frame to settle on, digging its talons into the crystal-strewn metal, and eyes me patiently.

I don’t have an owl, but I’ve observed enough of my schoolmates’ ones to know the owl stays only when it wants something. I pick up the parchment first. The ribbon unties itself and the parchment unrolls smoothly.

 _‘Letter of Intent to Graft’_ reads the heading below a coat of arms featuring a green sphinx holding a harp.

“What?” I mouth to myself. My immediate thought is that it must have been sent to the wrong house, but a quick scan of its contents proves me wrong.

_‘Dear Ms. Hermione,_

_After giving the matter some serious consideration, Lord Thaddeus Nott would like to express interest in and intent to graft you into the House of Nott as a rightful, honourable, and pureblooded daughter.’_

I continue to read, eyes squinting in disbelief, as the lethargy is swept instantly from my brain.

_‘An appointment has been pre-scheduled with the Registry of Magical Families for the morning of the 21 st August, at Nine-Thirty, with the aim of formalising the process._

_Should you wish to have representation with you, they may contact us directly to begin negotiations._

_We look forward to receiving confirmation of your acceptance and attendance.’_

The letter ends with a flourishing signature taking up almost a third of the page.

I have to re-read it three more times before I’m finally convinced of its authenticity. I exhale the disbelieving breath I’ve kept in and look at the unimpressed owl. “Do you belong to the Notts?”

It hoots.

“I presume that’s a yes…”

Lord Thaddeus Nott… He had been one of those unpleasant wizards I’d met in the empty classroom at Hogwarts. Was it him who had said he was going to put in a bid for me? No- it had been the bald one with the goatee. He’d said- what had he said?

_I think I can recognise something rare and I’ll be putting in my bid._

Something to that effect.

I’d assumed it had to do with marriage. Obviously, and mortifyingly, I was wrong.

I drop the parchment, thinking hard.

Were those wizards discussing a bid to adopt me? If so, why? Did they think I was an orphan? Maybe they thought I was a helpless, defenseless Omega that needed a home?

The accompanying letter from St. Mungo’s might hold a clue. I break open its seal and unfold the insert.

It’s an official notice informing me that tests confirm I have Nott ancestry.

 

-

 

“Hermione, are you alright? You’re a little off-colour, dear…”

“Oh, yes, I’m just- uh, worrying about the Animagus elective. I don’t know if I’ll be accepted with only an E in Defence…”

Deplorable, deplorable lies.

Mum checks her watch. “That’s the course with elements of zoology and genomics? What does defence have to do with it?”

“Your mum’s right.” Dad adds his support. “I don’t think the self-defence module should have any bearing on either zoology or genomics. It’s not at all relevant, is it? Let me know if you need us to write a letter. We can write a very angry letter…”

I try to hide my shame with an appreciative nod. I think I’m a horrible daughter, and it’s a hard epiphany to swallow.

“Don’t worry about it anymore.” Mum gives me a peck on the cheek.

I stand to follow them to the door.

“We’ll bring back dinner.” Dad shrugs his jacket on. “Do you want that prawn masala from Kutir? With the palak paneer- I know you like that.”

His solution to a bad day is always Indian takeaway. I manage another appreciative nod, trying to hide the fact that I want to start crying. When they’ve left, I rush through the house and up the stairs two steps at a time to my bedroom. The owl is still there.

“I told you to go!” I admonish, and then sigh when it doesn’t move. “Are you really going to stay here until you’ve got a reply from me??”

It hoots.

“Fine. _Fine_.”

I grab a roll of parchment, dip my quill into ink, and begin to write the beginning of a short, sharp letter-

_‘No thanks, I already have a family’_

-then stop.

It’s probably not fair to the Notts -well meaning, but clearly misinformed people. They shouldn’t be punished for my own reprehensible reaction and ensuing guilt to the discovery of my ancestry.

Elated- that’s what I had been.

 _I’m not a muggleborn!_ had been the first thing to enter my brain, the relief following it palpable. _These truly are my people. I’m not a freak!_

One of my earliest and most poignant memories is of a girl in pigtails in my Reception class screaming because my hair had exploded into a frizzy mane around my head like a lion’s after she’d snatched a book I was reading.

I don’t know if she called me a freak, but in my memory she does.

And even now, I have recurring nightmares of Professor McGonagall appearing to tell me that it had all been a mistake, that she had made a mistake inviting me to Hogwarts; that I was not a witch after all, just a freak.

Sometimes, that self-doubt and insecurity leaks into waking life, and I freeze and doubt if I am really magical. And it’s worse when my mental defences are down. During the practical segment of the DADA OWLs, a grindylow grabbed my ankle, causing me to panic and completely forget that I could even do magic at all. I had frenetically tried to pry it off with my own fingers, which it was not expecting. And then it had laughed at me!

But now, here, in front of me, was proof that I do belong, and-

_My real family!_

-I was rejoicing, the sentence flashing in my head, nearly squealing with joy; almost as happy as the day I’d been told I was a witch.

Then the self-loathing had crashed into me, along with the realisation that I am a horrible, horrible person. Apart from sharing a few classes with Theodore, I don’t know anything about the Notts; they are certainly not my real family. My real family are mum and dad!

Of course, once the strong emotions had died down, my brain began working as per normal, and I remembered that I had never ordered any test. I can only suppose that during my short stay in St. Mungo’s after the Krum incident, they must have conducted a genetic test amongst others.

They had not asked for my permission. And they had explained nothing. My innate dislike for the ‘magical way’ of doing things sits at the back of my head like an itch that can’t be scratched.

But this is the world I’ve been invited to join, and surely to be accepted by it, I must first accept it?

I ball up the parchment and start again.

_‘Thanks for the offer. I am extremely flattered, and you have certainly given me a lot to think about. I will reflect on the implications of the results of the genetic test over the weekend and send a definitive response by the 19 th.’_

I have a meeting on that Monday with Draco Malfoy, and I want to at least ask him about this. He’s one of them; he’ll know how to handle it with tact.

“Here you go.” I tie my letter to the leg of the owl, and it flies off in a silent sweep of wings into the bright morning sky.

Not five minutes later, another owl swoops in through the open window. This one is a common owl with light brown wings, and the letter it deposits on my desk is neither tied up in ribbon nor written in heavy parchment.

Fearing another life-changing piece of news, I unfold the letter with some apprehension.

It’s just an invite from Ginny, of all people, to come to their estate, The Burrow, for a dinner party this Saturday. She’s also included an invite to my parents from hers.

Ordinarily, I would be very excited; I’ve never been to the Weasleys’ and I want to see what a properly magical household looks like. I’ve only ever visited Parvati and Padma, but they live in London and because they have to follow the ministry’s secrecy laws, their house is not much more magical than mine.

But now, I can’t even marvel at the fact that Ginny has sent me a social invite, or that it seems like the implicit meaning behind it (for what else could it be) is that she might have finally read my manifesto and perhaps decided to join SLOW. I can’t even rouse interest in myself for SLOW; my brain keeps going back to the content of those letters sitting on my desk.

I hide the letters from St. Mungo’s and the Notts in my suitcase under a pile of books, and when my parents come home from work, I force myself to get excited and tell them about Ginny’s invite as though it’s the only correspondence I’ve received today.

 

-

 

The Weasleys’ house is even more wonderful than I’d imagined.

When we arrive by invisible flying car chauffeured by a very enthusiastic Mr. Weasley, we are immediately greeted by the sight of a giant patchwork marquee being erected in an overgrown field in front of a house that looks like it was built by someone who had no concept of gravity or symmetry.

A group of people wielding wands make the large tent unfold, rise into the air, and then hold itself in place without need for poles or pegs.

Mr. Weasley, having finished scaring Dad with his monologue about how pointless petrol is when a good hovering charm on the whole car is all it takes to make it fly, honks once at the marquee crowd before circling and landing.

“But I put petrol in the end-gin anyway because I know that’s how muggles do it,” he ends reassuringly.

Mum, descending the car with shaky legs, grabs me somewhat painfully by the elbow. “That was- that was quite an experience!”

“It’s my least favourite part of being a witch,” I whisper. “I don’t know why they like flying so much. We could have taken a portkey…”

Lanky redheads converge upon us. My parents have met most of the Weasleys at some point or other during sundry trips to Diagon Alley, but there are so many of them that re-introductions are necessary.

I am pulled away by Rohesia. “You’re early,” she says. “I think Uncle Arthur overestimated how long it would take to travel by flying car.”

“We are?” It already looks like there are a lot of people present, but then of course, the Weasleys _are_ numerous. “Who else is coming?”

“Bill and Fleur are still on their way. Harry’s coming with his parents, and Lavender with hers, and some of the twins’ Quidditch friends are too. Lee, I think, and Angelina, Katie…”

“That’ll be quite a gathering, _ow_ -!” Something tiny and brown sinks its teeth into my ankle and then runs away at top speed. “What _was_ that?”

“Oh, it’s just a garden gnome. Oi Fred, George! Another one of those little buggers is on the loose!” Rohesia leads me towards the crooked house. “C’mon I’ll show you around.”

“You don’t even live here, Ro.” Her cousin Ron breaks away from the group to follow us. “Shouldn’t I be giving the orders? Shouldn’t I be giving the tour?”

“Sure you should,” says Rohesia. “But didn’t Aunt Molly ask you to help her peel the potatoes?”

Ron blanches. “Actually you go ahead… I think I’ll help catch that gnome first...”

“Well that’s got rid of him,” says Rohesia, after Ron runs off. “Come let’s say hi to Aunt Molly and then we can look for Ginny.”

“Uh, okay.” I eye the house, wondering how it manages to house all the Weasleys. I’ve heard of expansion charms being added to the interiors of wizarding residences. It’s an inexpensive way of adding space, but it’s not very safe unless done by competent wizards, and it needs almost daily upkeep.

But when we enter, it’s obvious that no expansion or extension charms have been added. The inside of the house is just as charming as the outside; a hodgepodge of things piled one on top of another with no regard to personal space.

In one corner there is an old transfiguration textbook on top of a cookbook on top of a boxy television. There is a clock without numbers, a wall covered from floor to ceiling with medals and certificates loudly proclaiming their owners’ achievements, and the pillows appear to be playing musical chairs with the mismatched couches around a small round table. It smells like food and family.

I reluctantly follow Rohesia through the very fascinating living room, my head still swiveling this way and that, and into the kitchen where a Mrs Weasley is conducting dinner preparations alone like a music director. She waves her wand and her oven pops open to accept a tray of pies.

“Where is Ronald?” she fumes, casting an eye at her niece. Then she notices me. “Oh! Hermione! Lovely to see you again, dear. Perhaps you can get Ginny out of her mood and- oh dear-” She waves her wand as a pot behind her starts to boil over. “-remind her that her mother would appreciate some help in the kitchen.”

“I can help,” I offer, but am immediately rejected.

“Of course not, dear, you girls go…”

We leave the harried Mrs. Weasley to it.

“She’ll only accept help from her own kids,” Rohesia says, as we begin to ascend the winding stairs. “I’ve tried multiple times, but she won’t let me help her either…”

I am quite overwhelmed by all the sights, sounds, and smells, and am glad to be climbing away from them. “What’s wrong with Ginny?”

“I dunno. Won’t leave her room, apparently. Keeps alluding to a woman’s time of the month.” She rolls her eyes. “Bit dramatic, what. But she shouted at me through the door just now to bring you up when you arrived.” We reach a door painted pink, and Rohesia raps on it. “Hermione’s here!”

I hear the heavy thud of someone jumping off their bed, and then the pounding of feet on wooden flooring. The door cracks open to reveal Ginny’s face. She doesn’t look so good. Although everything about her is clean and she’s dressed for dinner and clearly sprayed on perfume, her face is pale, and her eyes overly bright.

She grabs my arm and pulls me in, closing the door on an annoyed Rohesia. “Tell my mum we’ll be out for dinner!” she yells through the door.

“I’m not your house-elf!” Rohesia yells back, but we hear her go grumbling back down the stairs anyway.

“What the hell, Ginny,” I exclaim, looking around. There are open bottles of potions ingredients lying around. Her room stinks of preservatives.

She stares at me wide-eyed, then grabs me by the collar and takes violent sniffs. “Oh no, _oh no, it’s true!_ ”

“What the hell, Ginny!” I pull away. “What are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”

“Can’t you _tell_?” she cries, wringing her hands. “You have to help me!”

“I don’t-” I look around. “Are you trying to brew something? You don’t even have a cauldron!”

“Of course not,” she snaps, sounding like the usual Ginny. “I’m trying to hide the smell, you nonce.”

I fold my arms. “Okay that’s rude. Just explain clearly what you need help with or I’m leaving. Your room stinks.”

“I-” She wrings her hands again, then looks up and around as though expecting God to show up and deliver her. “I-” Her voice drops. “I think I’m turning into an Omega, Hermione!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Draco this chapter, I'm sorry- we will see him next chapter, but the plot did thicken, no?  
> Which 'revelation' was most surprising for you?
> 
> Chapter last edited: 7/8/2019


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not pleased with this but I will be travelling (to the US!) for the next fortnight and I wanted to get this out before I left.
> 
> Some of you are so super clever and are beginning to guess parts of the "plot"- thank you for putting in your time and brain cells into trying to figure out this story.
> 
> Someone requested Omega Lily Potter so here you go- she however has to be a pure-blood so in this story she is Lily Prince Potter.

“What do you mean I think? _I mean I think_! I am starting to smell like one. I am starting to smell like you!”

“Uh.” I run a hand down my face. “Don’t they- weren’t you supposed to find this out at puberty?”

“Well, I haven’t got my period yet.” Ginny forces the words out through stiff lips. She sinks morosely down into her bed.

I sit down next to her, frowning slightly in concern. “This sounds like delayed puberty. It’s not good. You’re what, fourteen?” I raise my brows quizzically when she shoots me a glare. “Ginny, I don’t think I’m the best person to talk to about this. Wouldn’t your mum be better able to help you?”

“No,” she hisses. “She’ll report me and then I’m done for!”

“Ookay.” I press my lips together inwardly. I want to say I don’t think her mum will report her, but I am not sure about anything anymore.

“How did you do it?” she asks, looking hopeful and fearful all at once. “How did you hide it for so long?”

I shrug helplessly. “I don’t know. I wasn’t doing anything.” I perk up. “Maybe that’s the trick. Just pretend everything’s fine and no one will notice. It’s probably all psychological…”

“What? That’s not going to work. They’ll smell it the moment I leave the room. It’s been getting stronger for days!”

“No one smelled me,” I point out. Maybe it _is_ all psychological…

That quiets her. She appears to think, one hand fiddling with the tiny pink flowers sewn onto her bedspread. “You’re right,” she concedes. “I think we might have smelled Omega but didn’t think that it was you exactly, because no one thought that it _could_ be you. And of course, at Hogwarts there are so many students that it’s hard to distinguish who’s what…”

She looks up at me with fierce hope. “I think I can try and hide myself the same way. You just have to go with me everywhere! Then people will think they’re smelling you, and they won’t suspect me!”

I frown. “Ginny, that’s crazy. We can’t go around together all the time. Wait- is that why you invited me here?”

She looks ashamed for a moment, then gathers herself together again. “You said you wanted to help Omegas! And you’re the only one I know who doesn’t want to be one…”

“And I do recall you telling me that being an Omega was no big deal,” I say, raising my brow.

“That was before-”

“Before you found out you were one?” I complete her sentence and watch with satisfaction as her face reddens with shame again.

“I’m sorry. I’m a horrible person,” she whispers, looking away.

And now I feel ashamed. Because didn’t I just realise days ago that _I’m_ a horrible person? And here I am chewing someone else out for not handling their life-changing news well.

I’m a horrible daughter _and_ a hypocritical friend.

“Okay I’ll help you,” I concede. I put my hands up in a cautionary gesture when she looks at me with a face full of hope. “At least for tonight. We don’t even know if it’ll work anyway. They might realise what you are the moment we go down.”

“It’ll work,” she says confidently. “Harry’s mum’s coming and she’s an Omega too, it’ll help camouflage me. And of course, everyone will be distracted by Fleur.”

I remember Fleur is her brother Bill’s wife. “Ah, I didn’t realise she was also an Omega…”

“No.” She grimaces. “You’ll see…”

 

-

 

“We’re not trying to emulate conjoined twins,” I hiss. “Don’t rub against me like that.

“What’s a conjoined twin?” asks Ginny as she continues to nervously press the left side of her body into the right side of mine in an unconscious but perfect imitation of one.

“We’re so glad that you’re feeling well enough to come out for dinner, Gin,” Lady Potter, a pretty witch with dark hair and eyes addresses her. “Harry’s been so worried.”

Rohesia sniggers while Lavender oohs, and Harry tries to hide his awkwardness by putting his elbow in his bread plate.

Ginny giggles half-heartedly.

I feel truly bad for her.

“Aa, young love,” croons the beautiful Fleur. She drapes herself across her husband and bats long lashes at him. “Love is all we need, n’est-ce pas?”

“Why did Gringotts send you back, Bill?” asks Mrs. Weasley peevishly. I get the feeling that she doesn’t like her daughter in law very much.

Bill Weasley, his arm around his wife’s shoulders, chuckles. “Oh. You all know that old Marvolo’s just kicked it? Well, the new Lord Gaunt’s finally let the goblins into their vault to appraise their precious heirlooms and some of them are very, very dark artifacts. They recalled a few of us to help break their curses. Can’t value them if we can’t even approach them. Vegetables please.”

I help pass the platter of roasted roots along. “Avery’s grandfather is dead?” I remember the unpleasant old man with the bad knees. He might have been grisly and unkempt, but he didn’t exactly seem in bad shape.

“Yes. Ah, is his grandson still in school?”

“Just graduated,” one of my schoolmates clarifies.

“There are cursed items?” Mum enquires in poorly hidden alarm. “What exactly do these curses do?”

“Oh, there are all sorts,” Harry’s father begins to explain to her. “But don’t worry, we make sure most of them don’t fall into unsuspecting hands.”

“What do the Gaunts got hidden in their vault, Bill?” demands one of the twins, exiting a conversation with Lee and Angelina about a match between the Quidditch teams, Puddlemere United and Wigtown Wanderers.

Bill shrugs. “Probably the usual poisoned weapons and binding jewellery but we don’t know for sure. Haven’t started work yet. We have to get the papers in order first and that takes time…”

“You know what?” says his father, as he drizzles gravy liberally over his plate, “I think Morfin got sick of having to live in squalor while watching his peers rolling in gold. An ancient name doesn’t buy food, does it? This is what happens when you force yourself to live a life you can’t keep up.”

“I don’t know if I could ever sell my family heirlooms,” sighs Lady Potter, rejoining our conversation. “Although Sev’s more pragmatic. He’s said he’d sell his last cauldron if it’d keep us off the streets. And Merlin knows, he’s probably had to too…”

Mrs. Weasley shakes her head. “I’m with your brother on this. I’d sell whatever I had to to provide for my family.”

Ginny has a literal knee-jerk reaction to that and accidentally kicks me under the table. I try and suppress an annoyed grunt, but we’ve attracted attention, and faces turn to us.

“I heard that Avery’s adopted,” I blurt out in an attempt to distract, the very wild, very untrue statement making its way through my brain where it was born just seconds ago, and out of my mouth.

To my great surprise, everyone snickers, including Percy. “I don’t like to make conjectures,” he says, “but if even Hermione’s heard it…”

“ _I_ heard,” says Lavender slyly, “that his uncle’s his father.”

“Oh, that’s a common one, and I’m sure they’d like everybody to think so,” says Harry’s father, causing Lavender’s superior little grin to fall off her face at the realisation that her news isn’t as shocking as she thought it would be.

“Why would they want us to think that?” I gasp in disgust, brain still reeling at the apparently true piece of gossip I’ve accidentally brought to the table.

“Because the alternative is that his mother… uh,” Bill racks his brain for the right word. “…dallied with a muggle.”

Fleur giggles. “ _Dallied_? Tu veux dire faire l’amour?” she whispers very loudly into his ear. Ginny makes a gagging sound next to me.

“This isn’t dinner-appropriate conversation,” complains Mrs. Weasley, and she with the women at her end of the table break off to talk about a rice pudding recipe.

“Merope’s _definitely_ his mum, though?” asks Angelina, which elicits another round of gossiping from the rest.

“How is dallying with a muggle worse than incest?” Even my dad’s question sounds so naïve to me now, and I am for the first time sad that I immediately know the answer to something.

“In some circles, it’s the worst crime,” somebody else explains apologetically.

“Are adoptions common practice in the wizarding world?” I ask, trying to make it look like I’m steering the subject in a marginally more appropriate direction while really trying to dig up information I need.

“Yes and no,” answers Lord Potter, pushing up his glasses, and when I press for him to elaborate, he obliges. “It’s most commonly employed by pureblood families to keep their line going by legitimising a bastard or adopting in a male descendent of one of the female lines so the name can carry on.”

I nod my understanding. “And in the case of Avery they do so to be able to continue to claim they are pureblood?”

“Yes exactly.”

The table is cleared and we all slowly walk back into the house, weighed down by full and satisfied stomachs. The adults head to the kitchen to pick their digestifs. I follow them, Ginny trailing me.

Harry joins us. “Uncle Sirius’ great grandfather married a fake Macmillan…” He turns to Ginny. “Can I talk to you in private?”

Ginny looks at me. “Uh.”

I ignore their lovers’ drama; my curiosity for the subject I’m embroiled in growing its own voracious appetite. “Fake Macmillan?”

“She wasn’t a fake Macmillan, she was grafted quite late into the Macmillan bloodline, just before she became of age, when it would have been too late,” Harry’s father clarifies, as he pours himself a glass of something. “Sometimes if an heir is adamant on marrying a half-blood or muggle-born, they bribe another family into adopting the witch so that she technically becomes a pureblood. Problem solved.”

“None of these so called Sacred Twenty-Eight families are one hundred percent pureblood,” adds Bill. “Although they’ll do all sorts of things in order to keep their status. They’ll perform dangerous blood magic if it gets the job done. Usually bungle it too. And then we get called in to fix it.”

“Ginny?” says Harry, trying to get her attention, and she tugs on my sleeve in turn.

I exit the kitchen with the couple. “Uh. I’m sorry Harry, I’m conducting an experiment on magical cores and Ginny’s volunteered. We’re not allowed to separate.”

“Why? What sort of experiment? Until when?” asks a perplexed Harry.

“There’s no such thing as magical cores,” says Rohesia suspiciously, looking up from a chess game with Ron. Sometimes I forget that she’s nothing like her cousin. She’s a Ravenclaw and very well read. “What are you two really up to?”

“I think I can prove that magical cores exist,” I say stubbornly, unwilling to abandon the plot. “Ginny and I are trying to temporarily merge our cores.”

That earns a collective snort from the group of young Weasleys and their friends piled on the couches.

I roll my eyes, quickly inventing another piece of gossip. “Speaking of blood magic, isn’t that how er…” I try and remember the name of one of the Quidditch teams being discussed at the dinner table earlier. “…Puddlemere United supposedly won the league last year?”

Just as I intended, it sparks a full-blown Quidditch argument and when Bill comes out of the kitchen to add his piece, I manage to sneak Ginny back up to her room.

“Here.” I unwind my scarf, and then pull off my jumper. “Just wear these when you go out, and make sure everyone knows they’re mine. That way they’ll think they’re smelling my clothes and not you. I’ll keep sending you more. We can pretend it’s part of the experiment.” I pause. “Just to set the record straight, I think this is all really gross.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I- I’m sorry I involved you in this. It was such a shock and I just don’t know what to do about it yet.”

“I know. I understand.”

 

-

 

I arrive at my next meeting with Draco Malfoy fully prepared. The secretary that meets me, a young pimply witch, raises a polite eyebrow as I lug a tote packed with SLOW emblazoned decks printed and bound the muggle way, out of the lift.

“I’m sorry,” I apologise. “I’m not allowed to use magic at home yet…”

She waves away my apology and offers to cast a feather-light charm on the bag, which I gladly accept, before knocking discretely on the mahogany wood doors. They open to reveal the long hall-like loft-office of Draco Malfoy, one side of it an uninterrupted line of glass looking out onto the river and skyline. Threatening black clouds hover above the grey-clad city. Beads of moisture sit on the surface of the windows.

I turn my attention back to the desk and the man behind it, ignoring the cold stares that follow me from the wall of silver-eyed portraits. “Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy,” I greet, walking with quick and confident steps to his desk.

His heavy gaze sweeps from the top of my head down through my ecru skirt suit and to my ballet flats-fitted feet. “I thought we agreed,” he says quietly, “that you were going to call me Draco.”

I’d honestly forgotten and say so.

“Understandable. Why don’t you try again?”

I peer doubtfully at him. _Is he serious?_

“Try again?” When he makes no reply, I break a self-conscious smile and repeat my greeting with the correct name, the uncertainty adding a questioning inflection to the end of it- “Good afternoon, _Draco_?”

“Good afternoon, Hermione.” He smiles, waving a welcoming hand. The chair in front of me pulls itself out. “Please, have a seat.”

I sit and begin awkwardly extricating documents from my bag, determined to set the meeting back on track.

“I see you’ve been busy,” he observes dryly. “Let’s not go straight into work just yet. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve done since we last met?”

“There’s not much to tell.” I laugh forcedly. “The only events of note are somewhat personal.”

“Tell me anyway,” he says, and settles into his chair as if prepared for a long story. I know from my parents retelling of their work stories that important men can be somewhat eccentric; one just has to humour them. And Draco Malfoy is a very important man.

“Sure,” I say slowly. “One of it involves your cousin Lestrange.” I hesitate. “I know he’s your cousin, so I don’t mean to offend you by criticising him, but he was definitely behaving very inappropriately.”

“Mm, how so?” asks Draco Malfoy, as though he’s heard about his cousin’s behaviour many times before and is not surprised by the accusation.

“He said some highly suggestive things when we met in Diagon Alley.” The words come out in a rush because even though it wasn’t me that had behaved inappropriately, I am embarrassed by proxy, and thinking back on that encounter is upsetting me.

He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “What did your escorts do? I hope they hexed him?”

A bubble of genuine laughter escapes me as I imagine Ron attempting to hex a grown wizard. “No, I was alone. But one of my classmates intervened…”

“Alone!” exclaims Draco Malfoy, the word holding worlds of shock and concern. “How dangerous. You poor girl.”

“Oh, uh- it wasn’t dangerous-” Not having expected such a reaction, my own comes out disjointedly.

“Mm. And then what?”

I blink. “That was it. Oh, I did also receive an offer to join a wizarding family.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “An offer to _join_ …?” he repeats questioningly.

“Yes, a grafting offer. It’s a type of adoption-”

“Ah. Yes, I am familiar with it.” His pleasantly shaped mouth curves up in a generous smile. “Did you bring their offer?” His head tilts a little to scan through the pile of documents in front of me. “I can have one of my lawyers here in minutes. These things must be negotiated well.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But it won’t be necessary. I’ve rejected them.”

His chin jerks up. “Rejected them?” he says in sharp shock, and for a second, I imagine I hear anger in his voice. “When?”

I frown. “Does the when matter?” Actually, I’d sent out the rejection letter from Diagon Alley just half an hour ago.

“Of course not,” he assures. “But are you sure about this? A wizarding family could be very useful to you, and in the-”

“I’m sure,” I interrupt decisively.

His jaw clenches. He taps his fingers restlessly on the table. “Hermione, I do wish you’d discussed this with me before making such a rash decision. These are old and powerful families and you don’t want to break bridges if you want to see your project succeed. I offered you my help- my door is open at any time.”

“It’s not a rash decision,” I maintain, irritation pricking my chest. Then, unable to keep in my anger any longer, it all bursts vehemently out of me. “I know what they’re trying to do! They just want to sell me. They’ve already found a buyer.”

He stills, watching me cautiously with eyes as grey as the sky outside.

“And it’s your cousin, I know it!” I proclaim loathingly. “I know I have no proof and maybe you think I’m crazy, but I know it’s him! He _told_ me in Diagon Alley that his family only marries purebloods. He _asked_ me when I would turn seventeen.”

My chest heaves with indignation and fury. Just recalling my conversation with Sebastien Lestrange is enough to get my blood boiling again.

_That oily fucker!_

Draco Malfoy is still staring at me like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

I continue, too angry to stop. “He must have found out when my birthday is, and he knew I would only remain eligible to be adopted for the next few weeks. Well he can keep buying those perfumes. I’ll never marry an Alpha!”

“So, your plan now is…” he begins, when he’s found his voice.

“Easy.” I force myself to calm down, breathing heavily. “Avoid Lestrange for the next few weeks until I turn seventeen and untouchable, and then continue to work on SLOW and with your support, eventually change the laws.” I pat the top of my pile of decks. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. It’s been a stressful few weeks…”

He blinks, breathes in deeply and regards me calculatingly, silver eyes glinting like new coins. “I _would_ like to keep extending you my support, and I believe I have a solution that will ensure my cousin ceases to harass you, but…”

I lean in. “But-?”

“But you might have to be deceptive, and I’m not sure you have it in you…”

“I do,” I say eagerly. I’ll fight dirty.

He looks hesitant. “Well this would be a lot on my part, you understand, but you and I can pretend that we have an understanding…”

I withdraw, disappointed. “What? You mean a fake engagement? That’s it?” I’d expected something more than a game of charades.

He shrugs grey-suited shoulders. “It’s the simplest way to chase away other Alphas.”

Somehow it had never really crossed my mind that he’s an Alpha. I blink at him. “Oh. You’re-” Suddenly it feels like a very, very bad idea to be alone here with him. I frown at the ominous sensations now swirling in my gut, trying at the same time to ignore them. I never like to rely on feelings; they can be very misleading.

And I blame the wizarding culture for beginning to infect me with its views on propriety. I must destroy the toxic Alpha-Omega traditions before I too begin to think it all normal.

But the feelings persist, and I feel compelled to reassure myself. “You’re not also…?” I begin, before changing my question. It would be too presumptuous and egoistic to ask if he too wants to try and marry me. “I’m safe with you, right?”

He looks surprised. His expression softens. “Of course.”

“I just don’t want to…” I twist my hands, unable to articulate just what I don’t want. “I don’t want it.” I’m blushing now. “Marriage and babies and- and- all that.”

His face hardens again in a strange mixture of possessive protectiveness, something like what I imagine an older brother might look like if I had one.

“Poor girl,” he says, voice deep and slow and sympathetic. “Look at you, you’re so frightened. Come here.”

I stand to walk around the desk and go to him. He is very attractive; all sculpted lines and cool grey tones, and I know that’s not exactly an observation one would make of an older brother.

He touches my hair. “What unruly curls. As unruly and untameable as its owner.”

I like my curls. Viktor had asked me to wear it up for the Yule Ball, and I’d had to use lots of charms and potions to get it to behave.

“I like it,” says Draco Malfoy softly, and I smile.

He smiles too, eyes crinkling, and for a second there is a hint of gold in their grey, like sunlight hiding behind fog. “You don’t want to be tamed, do you?”

“I’m not a pet,” I say, half-jokingly.

He laughs cleanly. “Pet. I like that. Can I call you pet? It could be our way of making light of this whole situation. Very ironic, no? And of course, it’s also a short form of petulant, which you perpetually are.”

I tilt my head, unconvinced, slightly disturbed, but afraid of offending him. “I don’t know…It’s…” _Inappropriate._ “…Unconventional. But I suppose if we’re making it a short form, it is also a short form of petal, and that’s what my parents call me.”

He smiles indulgently. “See, it’s perfect. Shall we make sure no other Alpha ever gets his hands on you, pet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter. Let me know your thoughts. >.<  
> Chapter last edited: 18/8/2019


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone still reading this? Haha.  
> So sorry for the very long wait, I have been super busy with travels. Just a head's up I have revised the story and every chapter has been edited. There are changes in dialogue and in descriptions, the most notable of which is a change in description of Draco's office. But plot remains the same, so there's no need to re-read.
> 
> Since it's been awhile since the last chapter, a few things to remember:  
> This is a dark story that will contain dub-con/non-con/rape (however you want to call it.)  
> This story contains original characters.  
> Hermione becomes 'of age' at 17 years. She is about a year older than everyone in her year so she will turn 17 in her sixth year.  
> Harry's mum Lily is sister to Severus Snape and they are purebloods.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments!!

I shiver, picturing Sebastien Lestrange with his oily eyes and mannerisms. “How would it work? Obviously, I don’t want to actually be engaged to you. Uh, no offence…”

“I think you might be the first person to say that.” His eyes meet mine, and they’re as flat and as serious as his tone. “You have no idea how that makes me feel.”

I start to chuckle at his straight-faced joke but startle when he suddenly snaps his fingers. “Dobby!”

There is the tell-tale crack of an appearing house-elf, followed by the house-elf itself. It bows low.

“Bring me the Dragon’s Fantasy from my personal vault,” commands Draco Malfoy, and the house-elf disappears again. He smiles at my confusion. “It’s just the name of the ring. Trite, I know, but I inherited many such things, and they’ve been named by their past owners out of sentimentality.”

“I still don’t see how an engagement can be much of a deterrent to someone whose moral compass is already in need of tuning.” I frown doubtfully; I’m not sold on this idea. But the blonde wizard in front of me is practically oozing confidence.

“This ring is special,” he assures, taking the lacquered box from his house-elf when it appears bearing it in its skinny hands. He flips the box open with his thumb. Nestled in the middle of the dark velvet lining lies a miniature dragon with diamonds for scales, tiny pear-shaped emerald eyes, and a large green stone held in its open jaw. It blinks.

“Wow,” I breathe. It’s beautiful and so very magical. “But why do you refer to it as a ring? How does it work?”

“It will modify your scent by muddling it with mine,” he explains, looking on amusedly as wonder and admiration play openly on my face. “All we have to do is feed a couple of drops of our blood into it. Simple.” He picks up the piece of jewellery. The shining metal beast sways its proud head and swishes its tail lazily. “And as to your other question, it will wrap itself around your finger when I direct it to.”

“What you’re describing sounds like dark magic.” It sounds borderline illegal, in fact.

He laughs. “Blood magic isn’t necessarily dark magic, sweet girl. Here, hold out your hand.”

“What, now?” I say in alarm.

Draco Malfoy smirks. “When then? After my cousin has caught you? I think that would be too late.”

I bring my hands protectively to my chest. “I- I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

He swivels his chair to face me fully. “Hermione don’t be difficult. This will solve a lot of problems.”

“I know and I’m very grateful for your help.” My eyes flit around, panic building in me inexplicably. “But this doesn’t feel right. It feels like I’m going backwards…”

He lowers the dragon back into its box. “Shh, calm down,” he soothes lowly. “This was _your_ idea, and it’s a good one, but we don’t have to do it if you’ve lost the nerve.”

“Okay.” I _have_ lost my nerve. “I’m sorry.” I frown down at my hands. “I just-”

“The ring will offer you protection,” he says placidly. “Don’t you want my protection, pet?”

My heart rate is sky rocketing, and I’m finding it hard to think. _Protection. Do I want his protection? What do I need his protection from?_ “Maybe I should do some research on the subject first.”

He snaps the box shut and stands. “I really don’t like wasting my time, Miss Granger. _You_ came to _me_.”

I lick my lips, unsure and upset. I’ve offended him and- “I didn’t mean to…” I hesitate, tremble, look at his impassive face, and almost give in. But I look at that shiny box again, and I just can’t. I just can’t take part in a blood-magic ritual without at least knowing what’s written into it.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for wasting your time on this matter,” I apologise. “But if we can go back to discussing SLOW, I have new-”

He smiles icily, lifting a hand to silence me. “I don’t think we can do that today. We’re out of time here. I’ll summon my secretary to walk you out.”

The abrupt end to what should have been a successful and productive meeting is like a slap to the face. I jerk back. “Wh-what?”

“You don’t appear to value my suggestions or need my help. Like I said, I don’t like wasting my time.” He snaps his fingers again. “Miss Bulstrode.”

The pimply secretary returns and Draco Malfoy coldly gives her orders to escort me out, before he disappears wordlessly up the spiral staircase. I quietly gather up my things and leave, and as the doors to his office close behind me, the portraits along the wall begin to converse in low, derisive tones.

 

-

 

The clink of cutlery on plates can barely be heard over the chattering that echo across the Great Hall. Breakfast is almost over and prefects and student club leaders are scurrying around delivering messages or calling for attention.

The Gryffindor tables are no exception. “Quidditch trials are in a month,” announces Harry loudly, going up and down the long tables. “Kindly register by the fourth by adding your name to this list. I’m going to pin it up in the Common Room…”

“I’m going to try out for Chaser,” Ginny declares, stabbing her fork aggressively into the air. “All our subs are incompetent arsewipes.”

“Don’t expect to supplant any of them,” warns Seamus. “I know Harry’s sweet on you and all, but I guarantee the starter position will go to Farah.”

I yawn and put my head in my arms. I’d been up all night researching Central American logographic systems, and when I close my eyes, columns of fat squiggly glyphs parade past the inside of my eyelids.

“Just because her uncle’s a famous international referee doesn’t automatically make her a good chaser,” says one of Ginny’s mates. Corner, I think. “I’ve seen Ginny play. She’s decent. Loads better than Farah. And anyway, isn’t Shafiq being investigated right now?”

“Oh yeah,” says Ron further down the table. “I think he’s made some bad calls lately. Krum would definitely’ve caught the snitch if not for…”

I start at the mention of Viktor, but when it’s clear it’s still just Quidditch related, let my forehead drop back down. I think I’m getting a headache.

Somebody prods me in the back. It’s Parvati. “Alchemy now,” she says. “Let’s go.”

“Mm,” I respond, and drag my body up, massaging my temples. Everyone else is getting ready to leave. The chatter increases in intensity. Benches scrape against the flat stone floors. We wend our way through the usual exodus of breakfasted students and head for the dungeons.

“So, here’s the plan for tomorrow,” says Parvati. “Neville and Seamus have volunteered to get butterbeer and firewhiskey from Hogsmeade-”

“Oh no,” I groan. “I don’t need any of that. It’s just a birthday.”

“It’s not just a birthday,” she snaps. “You’ll be seventeen. It’s got to be celebrated.”

“It’s not-” I pause to reflect. “Hmm, you know what? You’re right. I do want to celebrate.” My seventeenth birthday will be important in more ways than one. Tomorrow, I’ll truly be free. And without the help of blood magic. Yes, I _will_ want to celebrate.

Parvati squeals. “I told you you’d change your mind. We already ordered a Seer’s cake. That’s traditional, and really fun. And we got some dragon’s firecrackers…” She prattles excitedly on until we meet with her twin near one of the stairs to the lower levels “Looking rough, Hermione,” she says. “Cramming for the NEWTs already?” She chuckles.

Who says Ravenclaws can’t be funny?

“Ha ha,” I deadpan. My eyelids feel heavy.

We descend the stairs together, and I pull my mass of curls into a bun on the top of my head as Padma pushes the door to our classroom open.

The new Alchemy classroom is a converted storeroom; last time I was in here it contained a fascinating collection of study skins and other magizoological specimens. But now there’s a blackboard, a shelf stacked with spare parchment and gloves, and twelve empty cauldrons sit next to twelve L-shaped workstations in the middle of the room. One of our classmates has already arrived and is busy setting up shop at one of the stations in the middle row.

“Theo!” greets Padma, when we enter. “I _knew_ you’d be in this class. Why weren’t you at breakfast?”

I study the blonde Slytherin. Despite attending almost the exact same classes together, I’ve never actually made any personal connection with him, and although I know he’s _Theo_ to most of my classmates, I’ve never felt comfortable calling him that.

“Morning.” He looks up and greets Padma, smiling slightly. “I had a floo-call with my father and I had to take it in Professor Snape’s office...” His eyes slide to me and suddenly I feel self-conscious. Does he know about the grafting offer? That we almost became siblings of a sort?

“Oh,” says Padma. “Sorry that merger fell through, by the way.” She raises her eyebrow when he gives her a look. “What? I read about it in Investment Today. It’s not exactly small news is it?”

I place my bag on the station next to the one Parvati has chosen. Financial gossip isn’t much more interesting to me than Quidditch gossip, and I need to do something about my tired state of mind before one of our most perceptive and nit-picky professors comes in. “Be right back,” I tell the twins. “Since Professor Snape’s not yet here, I’m going to go splash water on my face.”

Padma gives me a quizzical look. “What for?”

“I need to wake myself up. I won’t be a minute.”

The twins chortle amusedly while Theodore scoffs. “Merlin, Granger, are you a witch or not?”

Parvati pulls out her wand. “Here.” A blast of icy cold air hits my face, shocking me sufficiently to fully wake me. The cold is not enough to stop me from flushing with mortification, and soon I can actually feel the heat in my face. “Sorry,” I mutter an excuse. “Brain’s practically dead from exhaustion.”

She giggles some more. “Sure,” she says, patting my back in friendly condescension. “Don’t worry, even Hermione Granger’s allowed some dumb moments.”

The door bangs violently open and Harry, Cetus, and Neville walk in, chattering excitedly. Neville dumps his bag on the table in front of mine and turns around. “Professor McGonagall was looking for you. Says to inform you-” He adopts an exaggeratedly formal tone. “-that your application to take a portkey home tonight has been approved, and to make sure you are present at her office no later than five this evening.”

“Huh?” I say. Maybe I’m actually brain-dead. “Me? I didn’t apply to go home.”

Neville shrugs and turns around as the door opens again, this time to admit Professor Snape. He is followed by a flock of Ravenclaws and a few lagging Slytherins. I give Rohesia a quick nod. I’d already known she was going to be taking this class.

“Settle down,” our Professor barks, before he’s even reached his desk, and before the last student has even entered the classroom. “Who can tell me what Jabir considered to be the four basic qualities of the elements?”

Hands are hitting the air. Professor Snape’s eyes rove around before landing on me. His lip curls. “Are we pretending modesty for once, Miss Granger, or have we finally found a subject that you can’t get your bushy head around?”

I lower my gaze and roll my eyes safely at my textbook, looking up only after he’s called on a Slytherin student, Barty, to answer.

I mouth the answer silently along with my classmate. “Hotness, coldness, dryness, and moistness, Sir.”

“Correct,” says Professor Snape curtly. “Take five points. And what are the eight known elements of Alchemy?” His eyes survey the room again. “Harry?”

“Er,” says Harry. “Aether, air, earth, fire, sulphur, salt, water, and, er… lead?” He frowns at his uncle’s irritated headshake. “No? Er, krypton then? No, uh… Gold?”

Cetus is snickering.

“Oh!” says Harry finally. “I got it- Mercury!”

“Very good,” Professor Snape praises. “Take five points for Gryffindor.” I roll my eyes again. Could he possibly be any more obvious about his favouritism?

 

-

 

I knock on the door to Professor McGonagall’s office at five minutes to five. The lion-shaped knocker opens its mouth and her stern voice issues from it. “Enter.”

The door opens and I step in. “Professor,” I say immediately, not wanting to waste any time; I want to go to the library and finish my essay on logographic systems for Ancient Runes. “I’m sorry but I didn’t submit a request to go home-”

“I know, Miss Granger. Your parents did.” At my surprised look, she smiles good-humouredly. “I understand you will turn seventeen at exactly seven minutes and thirty-three seconds past eight o’clock tonight. They’ve sent a letter expressing their desire to celebrate your coming of age the traditional way and requested that you be allowed to go home for the night.”

“Wow! I- Really?” I didn’t even know there was a traditional way of celebrating a seventeenth birthday. Except that one must have a Seer’s cake, apparently. I suppose my parents learned about this from the Weasleys.

“Yes, really,” Professor McGonagall responds dryly. She hands me a square paperweight stamped with the Hogwarts Crest and a symbol of a key with wings beneath it. “You will take this portkey home in a few minutes and you will take the same portkey back here tomorrow morning. It will activate at precisely ten o’clock.”

“Okay!” I say excitedly. There is a broad smile on my face. I’ve only been back to school for a couple of weeks, but I already miss my parents, and can’t wait to see them. “Thanks, Professor!” I grasp the heavy paperweight. It’s not a moment too soon. There’s a jerk behind my navel, and then I’m falling forward into nothing.

 

-

 

I land with an ungraceful stumble in our entrance hallway, still clutching the paperweight. The lovely, slightly musky smell of home is the first thing to greet me, and I take a deep, appreciative breath, before yelling for my parents. “Mum? Dad? I’m back!”

There’s no response. The house is silent; almost too silent, and I fear they might be trying to surprise me. It’s dark in the hallway even though it’s still light outside, because there are no windows. I flick the wall-switch, but it doesn’t work.

I sigh in annoyance. I’ve only been gone two weeks and already things are falling apart. My parents are really bad about calling the electrician. Last year I came home to discover that the TV hadn’t been working for months.

I place the portkey on the console table. Even in the darkness I can see that both their keys are here. They’re definitely home. Maybe they’re upstairs getting ready. “Mum?” I call again. “Dad?” They know I hate surprises, but maybe that’s also a wizarding birthday tradition?

I look up the long flight of stairs and decide to head for the living room first. I know from watching movies that that’s where one usually gets surprised, and if that’s what they’ve planned to do, it’s best to get it over with.

There is a very strange, almost magical peace to the house. “Bizarre,” I mutter. This whole thing is bizarre. Did the Weasleys perhaps help them plan whatever it is they are planning? I didn’t get the sense from Ron that something like this was happening, and he is terrible at keeping secrets.

I sigh and pause just outside the living room. Am I about to be jumped on by fifteen redheads?

Bracing myself, I turn right and enter.

In the darkened living room, where the curtains have all inexplicably been drawn shut, I find my parents seated side by side on the couch, looking straight ahead of them.

So, no surprise then. “Hey!” I gesture and take a few steps forward. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

Their stares remain blank and fixed and they don’t appear to have noticed me despite my standing almost directly in front of them. I frown, my heart rate spiking as I suddenly realise that I can hear neither the sounds of the streets outside nor the usual hum of all the electrical appliances in the house. All that is indicative of magical warding.

“ _What the hell!_ ” I mutter, panic overtaking me. “What’s _happening?_ What do I do?”

“Whatever I ask you to do,” somebody behind me responds, the smooth, slightly acerbic voice familiar to my ears. I whip around, my pulse now a staccato in my ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter made up slightly for the wait. I will be travelling for the next month so the next update will sadly not happen before the end of September. I apologise in advance.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you like the story, leave me your comments, guesses, and ideas, they keep me entertained. Um, I mean writing. They keep me writing.
> 
> x

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos appreciated. I do not own Harry Potter.


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